The Reno
by Overnighter
Summary: When Ryan needs a ride to Reno, Nevada to rescue his mother, Summer is his only option. Will she be able to handle a glimpse into Ryan's shattered family life?
1. Ch1 The Phone Call

Disclaimer: I own nothing, I claim nothing, it all belongs to the Schwartz and his minions and masters.

Thanks again, to **Connell **for her awesome beta work, and to everyone who listened to me whine incessantly about this story. This takes place at some point before "The Return of The Nana," thus not complicating ugly family dynamics further.

For **Zybysko**.

The Reno

Summer was half-asleep when her cell phone rang. At first she wasn't going to answer it, assuming that it was Cohen calling from his "suite" in L.A., where he and Zach were once again being feted by the grown-up version of emo geeks, but it wasn't the familiar opening notes of "A Movie Script Ending."

In fact, as it rang for the second time, she didn't really recognize the song at all. This was not entirely a surprise, as she had made the mistake of letting Seth fool with her settings one night, and it wasn't until her phone started playing _Margaritaville_ when Marissa called in the middle of her appointment with Suky that she realized he'd reprogrammed all her ringtones, but she thought she'd at least heard most of the damage he'd done.

With a sigh, she finally picked it up before it went to voicemail.

"This had better be you, Cohen. And you'd better have a good excuse."

"Um, Summer?" The voice was soft and hesitant, and for a moment Summer didn't recognize it.

"Ryan! What's wrong with Marissa? Or is it Cohen?"

Except for that one night after the boys had returned to Newport when Ryan had showed up unannounced to plead Seth's case, Summer had never been alone with him. And he **never **called her. There had to be something wrong.

"It's, um . . . Marissa didn't call you?" he asked and, again, there was something off in his voice.

"No. What's going on?" she demanded, now wide awake. In fact, the call-waiting button was now buzzing in her ear, but she ignored it. With Ryan, she might not get a lot of information, but at least it would be accurate. With Marissa, even a newly-sober Marissa, you could never know.

She heard a soft intake of breath that was almost, but not-quite, a sigh.

"Every- Everyone's fine. Marissa's fine. It's just . . . I need a favor. A big one."

"Sure, Chino, anything. You know that. But where's Coop?"

She sat up as she was talking to him, absently glancing at her alarm clock – noting that it was already after midnight.

"She's visiting Caitlin for the weekend, and I don't know who else . . . Trey can't know -- the Cohens can't know . . . "

She had never heard him sound less coherent before. She hopped out of bed on instinct and began to put together a stealth sneaking-out-of-the-house ensemble.

"Know what? What's going on?"

There was that almost-sigh again, even as her call-waiting began buzzing anew.

"I need a ride. Or a car. Whatever. I need to get to Reno by morning," he said, all in a rush.

"Reno, _Nevada_?" she said, more than a little surprised.

"Yeah."

That was all. She was struck, not for the first time, by just how different Seth and Ryan were. She would have been on the phone for half-an-hour with Seth just getting an answer to that question alone.

"Can I ask why?" she said, as she shimmied out of her nightclothes and into a pair of low-key jeans and a sweater, casting about for her one pair of flats.

"Seth's got the Rover in LA with Zach. Kirsten and Sandy are out for the night. I can't take Marissa's car without either Julie or Caleb finding out about it. And I can't rent a car, I'm not old enough," he said succinctly.

That was not exactly what she had been asking, but that was, apparently, all of the information that Ryan was prepared to share.

"All right, I'll be there in about twenty minutes."

This time, there was a distinct sigh – of relief – before Ryan spoke again.

"I – Thanks, Summer. I really appreciate this."

"You're welcome," she said easily, then hung up the phone, still hunting for shoes.

She was not very surprised to find four separate, increasingly frantic, messages from Marissa waiting for her.

"Coop . . . "

"Oh, thank God, Sum! I've been trying to get you . . ."

"Sorry. Ryan was on the other line."

"Oh. So you know then? I'm so sorry, but I couldn't get away. Caitlin and I are at Grandma's, and it's the only weekend she's home from school. She went ballistic."

"I don't know anything! Coop, what's going on? Why Reno, for God's sake? And am I supposed to be telling Cohen anything about this?"

She almost crowed in triumph when she located her shoes, talking all the while.

"Absolutely don't tell Seth anything. Not unless Ryan tells you to," Marissa answered quickly, then paused. "Um, the rest of it? He needs . . . well, Dawn called."

"As in, Dawn, the drunken mother from Vegas Night? Dawn-who-abandoned-her-sons Dawn? What the hell?"

Summer realized that this was not, perhaps, the most rational response, but she had very little patience for mothers who could not be bothered with their own children. Much like her own.

Marissa interrupted her before she could continue her rant.

"She's his mother, Sum. She's in some kind of trouble, I don't know. But he's going, one way or another, and I don't think it's a good idea for him to go alone. He was going to take the bus, but I convinced him you'd be faster."

"Which I will. I don't mind, but . . . is she really worth all this drama?"

Marissa sighed, softly.

"Ryan thinks she is."

Summer snorted, but she couldn't disagree. She found her gym bag in the corner, left over from her workout at Cardio Bar yesterday, and started filling it with a change of clothes, just in case. It never hurt to be practical.

"Fine. You so owe me for this, though."

Marissa practically giggled in reply.

"Mani-pedis on me, I promise. Any day you want. Oh, and Sum?"

"I know, I know. I promise, I'll take care of him for you," Summer pledged, surprised to find that she really meant it.

Sneaking out of the house was not so much a stealth maneuver. She simply pounded on the step-monster's door and waited for a reply. Opening the door an inch, she waved her pink gym bag into the interior like a truce flag.

"That was Marissa. I'm headed to Casa Coop for the night. If you need me, I'll be on the cell."

Julie had stopped answering the phone at the Coopers' back when it was still the Coopers', and not the Cooper-Nichols', back when Marissa's family was still intact and Mr. Cooper was hiding from the Feds. She'd never really gotten back into the habit, which made things like this a relative breeze. If anyone needed her, they'd have to call her cell phone no matter what, and Summer was pretty sure the step-monster didn't even have Caleb Nichols' private number.

There was a fairly inarticulate reply, but it was definitely an affirmative. Summer liked to think that she had finished with a "Be careful," there at the end, but that may have been wishful thinking.

She hopped into the Mercedes SUV her father had purchased as the "family" car, which really meant Summer's car. Both her father and the step-monster drove 2-door sports cars -- a Porche and a BMW, respectively -- and Summer had hoped for a convertible, but her father had insisted on something safe.

Safe, and gas-guzzling. She was halfway to the Cohens' before she realized that they were going to need gas, and a lot of it, before they even hit the highway. She sighed, and fiddled with the radio. Here was another difference between Ryan and Cohen. It didn't matter if the world was ending and they had twenty minutes to evacuate Newport Beach, Seth would still have insisted that she stop and load up the car with fresh CDs. She was pretty sure that Ryan wasn't going to care.

She didn't even need to pull up the driveway. He was sitting on the wall that divided the darkened Cohen house from Marissa's old place, his own backpack between his feet. He was dressed the way she almost never saw him anymore, in Dickies and a grey hoodie, with his old, black jacket thrown on top. He looked up at the sound of Summer's motor on the quiet street, and for a moment, she didn't recognize him. He raised a hand in greeting, and she was struck by his old clothes – his Chino clothes. It was as though he was girding himself for battle.

"Hey," he said, as she came to a stop in front of him.

"Hey. What's the deal with the Cohens?" she asked.

He shrugged as he came around to the passenger seat and opened the door. With a fluid motion, he tossed his bag into the backseat and climbed inside. Summer wondered why some of that athletic grace had yet to rub off on her erstwhile boyfriend.

"They're out at a _Newport Living_ thing. I left a note. Told them that Seth called and we drove up to meet him and Zach at their hotel. Something about a party."

She nodded. Ryan was not a particularly good liar, but he was pretty good with a cover story, as long as he didn't have to tell it in person.

"And Seth? Does he know what's up?" she asked, not sure if _she_ was supposed to know or not.

Ryan shrugged again as he twisted into his seatbelt.

"I called. Left a message -- with Zach, too. Asked them to cover. Didn't really say why. I imagine there'll be a follow-up call," he added drily.

She laughed a little despite the circumstances, then nodded again.

"Fair enough. Do you, um, know where we're going?" she asked, still hesitant. He pulled a crumpled piece of notebook paper from the pocket of his jacket.

"The Wonder Lodge," he answered shortly, reading an address off to her as she programmed the GPS.

"Okay then. Reno, here we come."

"Thanks," Ryan said quietly.


	2. Ch2 Into the Night

Summer was glad that she'd left the radio on, because other than that short conversation, Ryan had yet to say another word. He watched out the window as they left the quiet, cool streets of Newport for the Inland Empire, and traveled over miles of highway, shifting occasionally, running his left hand back and forth, absently, over his right wrist.

She was happy to have the music in the background, to let it form an invisible barrier as they sat in not-entirely-uncomfortable silence. Unlike Seth, Ryan didn't feel the need to fill every corner of the quiet with noise, and she couldn't help but be a little glad for that.

She was no slouch in the chatter department herself, but every conversation she could think of somehow started out with, "So, your mom, hunh?" and she was pretty sure that Ryan wouldn't have appreciated it. Ryan wasn't a particularly easy guy to get to know, and she wasn't entirely sure that his reticence wasn't a good thing for them all. Still, it was easy enough to pick up that he wasn't exactly in the mood for idle chit-chat.

She kept a surreptitious eye on him as she drove, surprised by his uncharacteristic fidgeting.

For a moment, watching him as he fiddled where the wristcuff used to be, she was sharply reminded of an afternoon not long after Seth returned from Portland, when he had joined Zach and her for the first time at Saturday brunch.

Sitting in one of the battered old booths at the Pier, they'd watched as Seth pressed his forearm over and over again into one of the old burns that scarred the table, then absently rubbed the mark away. She had finally grabbed his arm, and was about to ask whether he'd picked up a nice case of autism in Portland along with a venereal disease or two, when he'd looked up at her with hooded eyes.

"Do you think that's from a cigarette?" he asked vacantly, "That mark? Is that about the right size?" 

Something about the way he asked made her want to change the subject, and quickly, so she'd let go of his arm and started talking about the latest e-mail from Anna as soon as she could.

"What happened to your wristcuff?" she asked suddenly, as she followed the soft instructions of the navigator and turned off the 405. Well, it least it wasn't about his mother.

Ryan jumped, cradling his arm against his chest in an involuntary protective gesture. He caught himself, and glanced at her, sideways, with a rueful smile on his face. As he released his arm and stretched out, she saw, even in the dark, the irregular white scar on his inner wrist, between two faint blue veins, against his pale skin.

"I think Theresa has it. It never came back with everything else," he said. 

"Don't you miss it? You always used to wear it."

He shrugged, and half-smiled again.

"I kind of hope she kept it. You know, to remember me by."

Summer hadn't been talking to Cohen when it happened, but she found out later that by the time the boys had returned to from Portland last summer, all of Ryan's stuff had been shipped back to Newport, and Theresa and her mother had disappeared from Chino. She wondered, sometimes, what that must have felt like. After all, Coop had said that Theresa's family was practically Ryan's family, growing up. Was there a limit on how many times you could be left by a mother?

Jesus. And now she was reminding him of it again, even as they drove across the entire state of California on a quest, she thought, to find Dawn Atwood.

"Sorry," she mumbled, but Ryan didn't seem very upset.

"'S'okay. I got a letter from her, you know," he added, resuming his restless fidgeting.

"You did?"

She couldn't believe no one had let that slip. Between chatty Coop and chattier Cohen, she usually had the inside scoop on all things Ryan Atwood. If he hadn't been such a nice guy, and, more importantly, if she hadn't seen with her own eyes his absolute indifference to their blind hero-worship, she would almost have found him insufferable.

"Yeah. I kind of -- didn't say anything -- to anyone except Sandy. He was helping me look for them," he added as an explanation.

Summer supposed she knew as much about Ryan's past as anyone, not that she would ever tell him that. In Seth's rare, quiet moments, he sometimes let slip things, which she knew Ryan would never want her to know, so she just tucked them conveniently into the part of her brain where she held Marissa's drinking and her mother's abandonment and the thoughts of Julie Cooper and Luke Ward together in bed; that is, she never thought of them at all.

"So, everything's okay?"

He shrugged again, before Summer had to turn her attention back and concentrate on the roads, navigating through the quiet, slightly rundown, Inland streets to an all-night Circle-K.

"I guess so. She's in Atlanta, staying with family. Theresa's going back to school. She wants to be a nurse. I guess, after everything, she was interested . . . " he trailed off as Summer pulled into the well-lit parking lot. There were a few other cars around, but nothing too scary. They apparently hadn't hit Ryan's old neighborhood yet. 

"Why are we stopping here?" he asked sharply, realizing for the first time where they were.

Summer put the car into park by a pump, and clambered out of the seat with a stretch and a pop.

"We're filling up the tank, so we don't have to stop in the desert. Also, I don't do all-nighters. I need caffeine -- coffee -- and snacks. No Kudos. No Goldfish."

She handed him sixty dollars out of the stash in her front pocket. He made a gesture to refuse, but she pushed it on him impatiently. He headed inside to pay, but she stopped him before he got to the door. 

"Hey, Chino. One-time-only offer. Tonight, my car is a smoking zone, if you need it." He nodded his thanks and disappeared inside.

She waited until the pumps turned on, then gingerly thrust the nozzle into her gas tank. Her father had made sure that she could do all the important things -- like pump gas and dial AAA -- before she got her license, but she hadn't imagined that she would ever need to use them. Still, she knew for whatever reason, Ryan never looked at her as a helpless princess -- not the way he looked at Marissa, at least -- and she didn't want this night, of all nights, to change his opinion.

She shrugged out of her sweater as she waited impatiently for the pump, amazed at the increase in temperature as soon as they emerged from her climate-controlled car. Without the ocean breezes, California was a lot hotter than she really liked. Even in the middle of the night. She wondered what it was like to live so far away from the sea, to live in a coastal state and never see the ocean. She wondered if Ryan had visited the ocean at all before coming to live with the Cohens, or if he'd lived his entire life in this dusty, sticky interior. She couldn't think of a good way to ask him, however, without sounding like everyone did whenever they talked about Chino -- wide-eyed and a little dim.

By the time she figured out how to top off the tank and replace the gas cap, Ryan had emerged from the mini-mart with two large coffees and a substantial brown bag under his arm. 

"Hey, you pump your own gas?" he said, handing over one of the insulated cups with a grin. It already had cream and sugar in it, exactly how she liked it. She wasn't sure when or how Ryan had acquired the knowledge -- probably the same way she knew all of his favorite comic heroes and snack foods -- a Seth rant -- but she was glad he'd paid attention. "I would have done it for you."

"I am a woman of many mysteries," she announced proudly, and was pleased to see him smile.

"You want me to drive for awhile?" he asked, as Summer started to climb back into the driver's seat.

"No, I'm okay for now. Next time we stop for gas, maybe. You seem like you're still pretty wired, and I'll be ready to nap by then."  
------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

It took twice as long to get back onto the freeway as it had to get to the gas station, even following the directions of the GPS lady. Summer was starting to think that someone was playing a trick on her, replacing regular road signs with one-way streets, but unlike Seth, Ryan seemed basically unperturbed.

"I think if you just swing around at the next corner, we can get the on-ramp from the other direction," he finally volunteered as she passed the entrance going the wrong way for the third time.

He was being way more patient with her than she would have been, considering how urgent he'd been on the phone with her hours ago.

She followed his directions, GPS lady be damned, and they were soon headed back in the right direction.

She sipped her coffee carefully as she drove down the nearly-deserted highway; once they'd gotten through the snarl of Los Angeles, the roads emptied out, and they were passing by mile after mile of small, dusty farms.

With a glance over at her, Ryan cracked his window and pulled a pack of Marlboro Lights out of the brown bag on the floor by his feet. He gestured vaguely at her, but she shook her head, and he leaned over to push in the dashboard lighter with a guilty smile, tapping the pack expertly, before extracting a cigarette with his teeth.

The lighter popped quietly, and Ryan lit up with an unconscious flourish. He took a deep drag, bracing a moment before blowing smoke out of the window in a concentrated stream, and Summer watched as he relaxed, physically at least, for the first time since he'd entered the car. 

"Never really quit all the way, did you?" she accused good-naturedly, but he didn't bother to answer. Instead, he shot her another half-smile and leaned back against the leather headrest, briefly closing his eyes.

"My mother -- Dawn -- called tonight," Ryan said abruptly, even as Summer thought they were going to settle back into companionable silence. He didn't re-open his eyes, but he hit the open window unerringly with every exhale of smoke.

"Hmmh?"

She made her best non-committal sound, hoping to encourage him to go on.

"She, uh, she called from jail. She needs someone to bail her out. I don't know how she got the Cohens' number; I didn't think she had it." 

His voice was so low that Summer was tempted to reach over and switch off the radio, but she was afraid that any movement would startle him out of his quiet confession. She wanted to find out what had happened, but she was afraid of scaring him off with questions. 

"She probably had it from, you know, before," she risked.

Ryan snorted, and took a final deep drag on the cigarette before flicking it out the window into the passing night.

"She never called before."

Summer wasn't sure how to answer that. 'Well, no, that's because she hasn't needed bail money since she left' didn't seem like the compassionate response. Ryan was a pretty realistic guy, but he wouldn't be the first to have a soft spot in his heart for a less-than-perfect parent.

"Did you tell Trey?" she finally ventured. Another snort.

"No way. Him and Dawn aren't exactly on speaking terms. Besides, he can't leave California. It's part of his parole," he explained.

Summer marveled at the various ways the extended Atwood family enjoyed the attentions of the long arm of the law.

"Anyway," he continued, "I didn't want her to have to stay there too long. So, thanks for the ride, again. I . . . it would have been Sunday morning if I'd taken the bus."

She waved off his thanks, gesturing with her coffee cup.

"No big. I'm always up for a road trip. Just think of me as Cohen-lite," she said gamely. She saw him smile, then turn away quickly, but not before she saw the shadow pass across his face.

She knew, as far as he was concerned, that she was no Cohen, period. In the best of all possible worlds, at least, in the best of all possible worlds where Ryan's family was still a train wreck, Summer knew she fell pretty far down the scale of Preferred Atwood Road Buddies. She thought _alone_ would have been his first choice, maybe Sandy his second. She amused herself momentarily by imagining Seth and Trey duking it out for third, but in the end she was willing to admit that Seth would probably emerge the winner. Even if Trey did fight dirty.

She didn't understand it, the connection that Seth and Ryan shared, but she'd seen it, and she didn't doubt it. At first, she thought that Ryan was putting up with Seth out of obligation, or duty. A thank-you to the Cohens for all they'd done for him. She couldn't imagine what a hot thug like Chino and a big dork like Seth could possibly have in common. She still didn't.

But she had to admit -- watching them now for almost two years -- Ryan really did need Seth. He used Seth like a canary in a coal mine, to feel out the edges of Orange County, where danger might still lurk. He depended on Seth, like his own personal Prozac, to measure his moods and take him out of his own head. She recognized that in Ryan, because she used Seth the same way herself.

She was pretty sure that he loved Seth nearly as much as Seth loved him, nearly as much as she loved Seth. And that was really saying something.

By the time they next stopped for gas, Summer was starting to weave back and forth across the highway.

This time, she allowed Ryan to handle the gross pumping of the gas while she used the far grosser restrooms. She splashed some cold water on her face carefully, and glanced at her watch. It was nearly four o'clock in the morning, and they were nearly halfway there. She could handle it.

When she returned, the car was locked and empty, but she saw Ryan walking across the parking lot from his own pit stop. She started to climb back into the driver's seat, but Ryan stopped her with a gentle hand on her arm. 

"How about we switch for awhile here, Speed Racer? Before we re-create Jayne Mansfield's last day?"

"Chino, sometimes you sound like Cohen, and that's not always a good thing. What are you talking about?"

He smiled at her, and nudged her around the hood of the car to the passenger seat.

"Nothing. Nevermind. She's an old movie star. My mom used to like to watch those star biographies on cable, I picked up a lot of random stuff. She died in a car accident -- there was beheading --."

"Ew. You couldn't just say, 'Hey Summer, why don't I drive for awhile?"

He climbed into the driver's seat as they talked, carefully checking the mirrors and adjusting the seat. He glanced over at her and smiled again, almost a real one.

"Hey, Summer, why don't I drive for awhile?" he repeated.

"Fine. You have, like, a driver's license, right?" she asked, and he nodded as he started the engine again.

"Yes, I have a driver's license. Sandy fixed it all up for me last year." 

Ryan pulled back out onto the highway with far less trouble than she'd had earlier, and the hum of the tires against the still-deserted road was lulling her to sleep.

"Wait," she muttered sleepily. "Weren't you a car thief?"

To her surprise, she heard him laugh.

"Yeah, _that_ was my big problem -- driving without a license. Actually, I was more the car thief's passenger, so it was okay."

"I thought you could drive, though? Or did Mr. Cohen teach you?"

"Sandy? Oh, no. You've seen Seth drive, right?"

Summer tried to picture Ryan, currently flying down the highway at over eighty miles an hour, passed by a car full of nuns.

"I totally take that back," she said.

"I could drive -- I did -- in Chino, but I'd just turned 16 the week before I came to the Cohens, so no license. Sandy made me get one just in case."

She opened one eye to watch him staring intently at the road. At some point they'd picked up a classic-rock station, and an old song she vaguely recognized was playing in the background. Ryan was drumming his fingers unconsciously against the steering wheel to its rhythm.

"Chino! That means you're almost as young as me, and I'm the baby in the class. I didn't think they let boys start that late. Does Dr. Kim know?" she demanded.

"Yes, Dr. Kim knows. I started school a year early. It was cheaper than day care," he added.

"Was that here?" she asked, watching the signs for Fresno and Sacramento converge into one in front of her tired eyes. Why did she know that Ryan had lived in Fresno? Had Seth told her, or Marissa?

"You mean in Fresno? Yeah. We didn't move to Chino until I was about eight," he answered.

Summer wondered what that must have been like, to be the youngest, the smallest, in these dry, inland cities. Her own mother had been ecstatic when she had just made the cut-off for the year's kindergarten class, thrilled that Summer would no longer "be underfoot" all day, although she was under the feet of the nanny or the housekeeper far more often than she saw her glamorous, distant mother.

She drifted off to sleep wondering if Ryan had ever felt that, too, that feeling of relief and revulsion from his mother, the woman who was supposed to love him. If he'd ever hidden out in back rooms or under the kitchen table, so no one would notice him, so no one could complain that he was in the way. School hadn't helped, in the end. Summer's mother was gone before she started the first grade.

When she awoke, it was hours later, the sky pinking up with a hint of the coming dawn.

They had lost the rock station at some point, and a soft, Spanish ballad was playing over the radio. After a minute, Summer realized that Ryan was singing along, absently, under his breath.

She turned her head silently to watch him for a moment. He was slumped down in the seat, his left hand propped against the window, his right draped over the steering wheel. He looked exhausted, but far more relaxed than he had the night before.

The singing stopped abruptly as he glanced in her direction.

"Hey," he said, "You're awake."

"Don't stop on my account," she murmured. "You have a nice voice, Chino. What's up with the TJ music fest, though? Where are we?"

"We just turned onto the I-80 a while ago. It's a little before six."

She nodded and stretched, then reached down to rummage in the brown bag at her feet as Ryan turned off the radio.

"So, we have pretzels or Snoballs," she announced, "Plus, some warm water. Any preferences?"

"Water'd be good. I'm not too hungry."

She opened a bottle of the lukewarm water, then passed it over to him.

"Ew. That's pretty nasty. You can turn the music back on, you know," she added.

Ryan shook his head.

"No, I just liked that one song is all," he said.

"Do you listen to Mexican radio a lot?" she asked, honestly curious. Seth was always making fun of him for not really liking music, but maybe he'd harbored a secret jones for Selena all this time.

"Not really. We used to listen to it a lot when we worked with Theresa's father. You pick some stuff up."

"Theresa's father?"

"He had a landscaping business. Trey and 'Turo and I used to help out when we could, after school and in summers."

"I mean, I guess I just thought that, you know . . ."

"Not everyone in Chino is like my family," he said softly. "Theresa's parents were married. They were happy."

"What happened?"

"Heart attack. He thought it was indigestion, at first, and by the time he went to the _clinica_ it was too late."

Summer found it amusing that Ryan occasionally slipped into Spanish, apparently unconsciously. He seemed to measure all his words so carefully that it was always a surprise, but she had learned that he only did it for things that had no Newport equivalent, as if he'd had to learn a whole new language too quickly, so that gaps still remained. The _clinica_, the _bodega_, the _chincheria_. That last one she knew only because Seth had pestered her about it until she'd finally Googled it.

Watching him as he drove, she began to understand, just a little, the impulse that Seth always seemed to have to leave well enough alone. The Cohens seemed to treat Ryan as if he had arrived in Newport as a blank slate, without a past.

It was hard to imagine him as a kid, with someone else, not Sandy Cohen, acting as his father figure, with friends and parents and memories that no one in Orange County could ever share. It was harder, still, to remember that in some ways, Ryan Atwood was as much an outsider in Newport as Lupe, their downstairs maid, or DJ the lawn boy. He looked like the all-American boy, but the truth was that Chino was a lot closer to Playa del Carmen than it was to Peoria.

The boy she was seeing on this ride seemed suspended somewhere between those two worlds -- the Newport Ryan who punched people, but also was Seth's best friend, the one who had saved Marissa from herself -- and the Chino Ryan she had never met. Marissa had said that Ryan was different, now that Trey was there, more relaxed about some things, but Summer was starting to see that he wasn't relaxed so much as resigned. Trey must know this in-between Ryan, at least a little, so there was no need for Ryan to hide behind the intimidating persona he'd developed. Of course, there was no way for him to take cover behind it, either.


	3. Ch3 All the Way to Reno

There was more traffic as they approached the city of Reno, but they were still making good time, watching as lush farmland gave way to chaparral, as scrub trees turned to desert and then into the gaudy, tacky, rundown beginnings of a city. How did a place so young come to look so old?

The sun was high in the sky as they reached the outskirts of the city, even though it was still early, causing waves of heat rise off the macadam, burning off the morning mist.

"McMuffins?" he asked, finally, breaking her reverie by pointing at a McDonald's Golden Arch in the distance.

That was something she loved about Ryan. Not only did he remember things, but it was without editorial comment. He didn't talk about fat grams, or hormone-laced beef or corporate greed. He didn't make funny remarks about Cardio Bar or her curvy ass or how nice it was that she could eat like "one of the boys." He knew she liked McMuffins, McMuffins were there. It really was that simple. And after a while with a full-time Cohen, simple was sometimes the most appealing idea she could imagine.

"Sure, McMuffins would be awesome. But shouldn't we find your Mom first?" she asked.

He nodded.

"Yeah, well, I need to find a phone -- make a few calls."

She sighed, and reached around to the backseat for her handbag.

"I've got my phone, Chino. It's just not turned on." She said. He nodded again, but pulled into the parking lot just the same.

He pulled a crumpled twenty from the front pocket of his pants and sent her into the restaurant for breakfast, waving off her offers of her phone with a fistful of change and a grunted, "I'm good."

It didn't occur to her until she emerged from the restroom, where she had managed to brush both her teeth and her hair before an attendant entered, interrupting her routine, that he might just have wanted some privacy.

When she left the cool of the restaurant with a large, greasy bag of breakfast food, Ryan was standing under the eave, smoking yet another cigarette. He had already shed his jacket and hoodie in the dry, hot morning, and was standing in just his grey t-shirt and pants. With one foot hooked against the wall and his hand shielding his eyes, he looked different – dangerous -- and for a moment Summer didn't recognize him.

She stopped in front of him.

"Everything okay?" she asked hesitantly.

"Not really. We can stop at the precinct and see her, but she's got to be arraigned before we can bail her out. They said sometime this morning." He took a deep drag of the cigarette, which was nearly burned down to the filter. "What'd you get?"

"I wasn't sure, so I got a couple of different breakfast-sandwich thingies. Something ought to be edible. Plus, you know, McMuffins, if you want one."

She handed the bag over to him as he stubbed out his cigarette with his toe and poked through it absently.

She thought they would head right for the car, or at least back into the restaurant, but Ryan slid down the wall and sat on one of the creosote-soaked railroad ties that marked the borders of the restaurant's neat displays of desert grass.

"Do you want to go inside?" she asked.

He looked up, startled, from where he was about to take a bite of a sausage biscuit.

"Hunh? I mean, yeah, we probably should," he said, but he seemed reluctant to move.

Summer sighed, and thanked God that she'd worn a practical, stealth-sneaking-out ensemble, complete with dark-wash jeans. She unraveled a few of the napkins that she was clutching and spread them out next to Ryan before she perched next to him, lightly.

"Never mind. We've been in the air-conditioning all night. The fresh air will, you know, do us good or something," she said, then nudged him, "Can I have my McMuffin now?"

He handed over the bag, and they ate in companionable silence for the next few minutes.

"So, um, the arraignment thing? Is that good?" she asked, as she washed down her second sandwich with lukewarm coffee. Lukewarm seemed to be the theme of this particular car trip.

He sighed and wiped his mouth, reaching for another hash brown before he answered.

"Not really. Not at all, actually. If you're just in a little trouble, they usually just write you a summons and let you go. Arraignment means you could go to jail, usually."

"Can I – what did she do?" she asked, watching his face carefully from the corner of her eye.

He sighed again and ran his hands over his pants to wipe away the worst of the grease. Without looking at her, he began to gather up their trash.

"Drugs. Drunk and disorderly. The clerk said some other stuff, but that's what Dawn told me on the phone," he said.

He threw the bag in the trash, then hopped to his feet, pausing to offer Summer a hand.

"We should go. If we get there before nine, we might be able to see her before court."

He lit up another cigarette as they were walking back to the car, and Summer was suddenly struck by the number of butts that had already accumulated in the ashtray.

"Hey, Chino, are you through that whole pack already? You're going to make yourself sick."

He shrugged and handed the crumpled half-pack to her along with the keys.

"Here. If I've got them, I'll smoke them. Would you mind driving? I've got the directions, but I think it'll be easier if I navigate."

It was actually fairly easy to find the low-slung police station following the directions Ryan had scribbled on his crumpled paper, but it took them a moment to realize that the beige and brown building on the end of Reno's strip was, in fact, a precinct. It looked like the snack pavilion at the Newport Beach Country Club.

Summer toyed with the idea of waiting outside while Ryan went in and did his thing, but it was broiling hot in the morning sun. Plus, she had a feeling that as a designated Cohen substitute, she was expected to follow through and do the Cohen-y thing. Which was to stick to Ryan like glue for the rest of the trip.

She locked the car and relaxed when she realized that he wasn't going to object. She trailed behind him as he walked through the front door as if he'd done it a thousand times before. In fact, she thought as she scuttled to keep up with him, he probably had.

They stopped just inside the main doors, and Summer could feel the changes in him beside her. His whole body tensed up, and his breathing became rapid and shallow. He was standing with his hands held flat against his thighs, and Summer realized, suddenly, that he was afraid.

There was a clerk, an older woman with hennaed hair and purplish lipstick, sitting at an old-fashioned teller's window behind a pane of plexiglass at the far end of the room, and Ryan made his way slowly over to her, leaving Summer to stand in the doorway.

"Pardon me, ma'am?" he asked, laying his hands flat on the counter in front of her window. Summer knew that Ryan had not been in Juvie very long, but apparently it didn't take a long time for some habits to become ingrained. He was making sure that everyone knew where his hands were at all times, like he was the Birdman of Alcatraz or something.

"Can I help you?" The woman's voice had a faint southern twang, which Summer thought was a bit out of place.

"I'm looking for Dawn Atwood. A-T-W-O-O-D," he spelled automatically.

"And where would she be?"

Summer saw Ryan's shoulder twitch.

"I don't know. Central Booking, maybe? That's why I'm looking for her."

"And are you her counsel?" The woman had either barely glanced up at him, or she was completely blind. Ryan may not look 17, but he certainly looked nothing at all like an attorney.

"No. No, I'm her son," he admitted quietly.

"I don't know if you'll be allowed to see her," the clerk said, not unsympathetically. "She's still in the tank awaiting transfer. Have a seat and I'll see what we can do."

Ryan nodded reluctantly, and waited for Summer to join him before he sat down on one of the wooden benches ringing the room.

It took over twenty minutes for someone to come and find them. Summer knew this, because she was watching the hands of the clock above the clerk's window jerk slowly around.

She was freezing in the building's over-cranked air-conditioning, and wished that she'd thought to bring her sweater. She could see the fine, blond hairs on the back of Ryan's arms standing up, so he must be cold, too, even though he gave no indication of it. Instead, in a reverse of last night, he sat perfectly still, his legs stretched in front of him, crossed at the ankle, his palms spread flat on his knees, while Summer squirmed and fidgeted beside him. And yet, when the police officer in his khaki uniform finally emerged from the end of one of the long hallways radiating off the front hall, Ryan was on his feet before Summer.


	4. Ch4 The Sheriff's Office

"Officer Hansen?" he asked as the man approached them. The sheriff's deputy was an older man, with silver hair and a hard, rounded beer gut above his Sam Browne belt, but he reached his hand out amiably to Ryan and shook it politely.

"Mr. Atwood? We spoke on the phone," he added, by way of explanation. Ryan nodded.

"Why don't you and your . . . " he trailed off with a significant look in Summer's direction.

"Friend. Sorry. This is my friend, Summer Roberts," Ryan said softly, and Summer was surprised that the man shook her hand as well, with a hard, callused grip.

"Miss," he said, inclining his head towards her. "Why don't you two come back with me, and I'll explain what's going to happen this morning."

Ryan started down the hall behind the officer without hesitation, but Summer hung back.

"Um, maybe I should just, you know, wait here?" she said, as the two stopped front of her and turned back.

She didn't know what to do in this situation. Would Ryan want her to hear whatever it was the cop was going to tell him? Would Cohen go with him, for support or whatever, or would he give him some privacy?

To her great relief, Ryan made the decision an easy one.

"It's okay, Summer. It's not like it's all going to be a big shock, anyway. You can come," he said. It might have been her imagination, but she thought she saw the deputy nod his approval before they resumed their walk down the hall.

The sheriff's squad room turned out to be small and fairly well-kept, with two rows of metal desks, each with one desk chair and one visitor's chair. Deputy Hansen led them about halfway down the first row and Ryan automatically offered her a seat, but before she could reply, the officer had returned with a second chair. She sat as far back from the desk as she could, letting Ryan take the lead.

Deputy Hansen pulled a thick, olive-green folder from the top of a pile on his desk.

"Son, when is the last time you saw your mother?" he asked

Ryan shrugged and looked down at the floor.

"It's, uh, been a little while. Last, um, fall. Last fall. I – we don't – I don't live with her anymore," he said.

The older man nodded and opened the folder in front of him so that Ryan could see it.

"I don't want this to be a shock to you, but your mother's been in some trouble in these parts before," he said, spreading his hands over the open file. From her seat off to the side, Summer could see a blurry black-and-white mugshot clipped to a large pile of carbon-copied papers in various shades of goldenrod, pink and green.

"She and her pimp . . . "

At that, Ryan's head shot up, and Summer could feel the heat of his glare, even without being the subject of it. The deputy held up his hands in apology and started again.

"She and her known associate, A.J. Vasquez, have been around for about six or eight months now. At first, she had a little trouble at the casinos,"

"Counting cards," Ryan muttered under his breath, and the deputy stopped for a moment, assessing the boy in front of him.

"Yeah. Card counting, slugs in the slot machines, small-time stuff, but it got her blackballed most places. After that, it was drugs, possession mostly, then . . . "

Ryan cut him off again.

"Is A.J. dealing again? Is Dawn mixed up with that?"

"So, you know Mr. Vasquez?" the deputy asked, giving Ryan another long look, which he held for a beat until Ryan replied in a dry, tight voice,

"You could say that. He, uh, is the reason I don't live with my mother any more."

He cleared his throat, and Summer saw him rub his right wrist reflexively as he dropped his head again.

"We believe that Vasquez is the dealer, yes, but your mother's got a couple of intent-to-distribute counts this time around."

Ryan shook his head, eyes still on the floor.

"She's not that together. If she had drugs on her, he put them there."

"That's entirely likely, Mr. Atwood, but that's not for me to determine," the deputy answered carefully.

"Is she . . . is she back on . . . " Ryan couldn't quite complete his question, but Hansen seemed to understand.

"She's a junkie, Mr. Atwood, pure and simple."

Ryan sort of shuddered at his pronouncement, and the deputy's face softened as he looked at the crestfallen boy.

"I would think not for too long, though," he added, gesturing to her file again. "It says here that she was a holding down a waitressing job until a few months ago. And her first few collars were for small amounts of cocaine and crystal meth. It's just the past few times that she's been . . . "

"That she's been shooting up," Ryan finished for him, dully.

The deputy grimaced, and reached out as if to pat Ryan's arm sympathetically, but he drew back, wrapping his arms tightly around his torso.

Summer shot the officer an apologetic look and leaned in towards Ryan, but he'd already shut down. She took a risk, reaching out to touch his thigh. She felt the muscles tense beneath her hand, but he didn't flinch away. Close enough.

She took a deep breath and caught Hansen's eye.

"So, Mrs. Atwood's in trouble," she said, and the deputy nodded. "What, um, specific trouble, this time? And what can we do to, like, fix it?" she asked.

She was a child of Newport. All problems had solutions, if you had enough money to buy them. Almost all problems, anyway.

The deputy smiled at her gratefully, and turned in his chair to address her.

"In addition to intent and possession, Ms. Atwood has been charged with solicitation, public nudity, and drunk-and-disorderly, as well as assaulting a police officer," he said in a detached, professional voice. Beside her, she felt Ryan flinch again.

"What happened, exactly?" she asked. She felt terrible, asking these questions, hearing this stuff, but Ryan had come here to help his mother, and she had come here to help Ryan. She didn't know what else to do.

The deputy rubbed a hand across the back of his neck and glanced briefly at the ceiling.

"She was caught in an alley behind the Golden Phoenix Casino with a couple of johns. When the arresting officers tried to, uh, break up the party, Ms. Atwood became rather belligerent, and she chased one of the patrol cops down Lake St. with a piece of two-by-four and her purse. When they tried to subdue and search her, on the public street in front of the casino, she attempted to, uh . . . "

"Drop trou and conceal evidence." Ryan spoke up suddenly, without ever lifting his head.

To her amusement and horror, the officer appeared to be blushing.

"Well, sort of. Obviously, she's tried it before?"

Ryan answered in the same toneless voice.

"Beat cops can't do a cavity search. They'll usually take you to a hospital instead of a jail cell if the evidence is, um, well-concealed."

Summer wasn't sure what she had been thinking, but the mental picture _that_ put into her head was just too much. She wanted to die, and she couldn't imagine how Ryan was feeling. She hadn't been the Vice-Chair of the Social Committee at Harbor for nothing, though. Awkward small talk was her specialty.

"Ooookay. So now that we've all got an idea of what happened, what can we do to, you know, make it go away? Do we need a lawyer? A doctor to testify she's a little off her game right now, what? How do we get her out of here?" she asked.

Well, at least it got Ryan to lift his head. Both he and Hansen were staring at her with blank-faced shock.

"Summer, didn't you just _hear_ what she did?" he asked, astonished. She shrugged.

"Whatevs. It's Reno. That's like, the white trash Las Vegas. I'm sure it's not the first time someone's flashed a little something-something on Main Steet."

The deputy looked like he didn't know whether to be angry or amused by her.

" 'The white-trash Las Vegas.' I'll have to remember to recommend that to our board of supervisors at the next town meeting. I don't know why we haven't used that slogan before."

Ryan's head swiveled back and forth between the two of them.

"She, uh, totally didn't mean that, man," he started, but Hansen held up his hand.

"It's fine, really. It's fine. Not the most diplomatic answer ever, but not essentially untrue. Look, ordinarily these cases don't go very well. But Ms. Atwood is a mother; she's raised a good kid, obviously, whatever her current issues. There might be something we can do."

"Look, just tell me if I can bail her out, and we'll get out of here," Ryan said.

Now, it was Summer's turn to gape.

"Ryan! Aren't you listening? At least let the guy tell you what he can do. And don't you think it's time to call Sandy and get him involved?" she demanded.

Ryan's face reddened as the deputy watched their back-and-forth carefully.

"Sandy?" the deputy asked. "Is that a . . . "

"Friend of the family . . . " Ryan said evenly, then turned to shoot Summer what Seth called the "Glower of Doom."

"Summer, I already know what he's going to tell me," he said, nodding at the deputy.

"No offense, sir," he added, then turned back to Summer with a shrug.

"Look, Dawn's a good candidate for a rehabilitation program, she's got a family and a work history. Except, there won't be a bed anywhere, and by the time her hearing comes up she'll be too strung out to remember, or care. And when they finally do find her a bed, she'll be in too much trouble to be eligible anymore, or too sick, or too poor. It's always the same thing," he finished, fiercely.

Behind his head, she saw the deputy nod wryly.

"You really _have_ been through this before, haven't you?"

Ryan sighed, and ran a hand through his short hair, making it stand up in uneven spikes across his head.

"Yes, sir."

Summer sighed in frustration.

"Isn't there, like, another way? Isn't she totally eligible for a free lawyer? Can't he convince a judge to order her to a rehab place?" she asked.

Ryan and the deputy both shook their heads, almost simultaneously, but Hansen answered.

"She's eligible for a public defender, and they do their best, but a judge can't order a bed that's not there. Now, if she could afford a private place, he'd give her a waiver, but there aren't enough county beds to go around."

"Well, duh. Why didn't you say so? So as long as she has a private rehab place, the judge will let her do that instead of jail?"

Hansen smiled at her sadly.

"Most likely, especially if her counsel can whittle down those intent-to-distribute charges. But those private facilities aren't obligated to take charity cases, Miss."

Summer wanted to scream.

"What if it's not charity? What if someone could pay?" she demanded, but Ryan was hissing at her fiercely under his breath.

"Absolutely not. No. I'm not getting the Cohens involved. This is _not_ their problem, Summer. Do you understand me?"

Summer dismissed his furious whisper with a wave of her hand, and turned back to the deputy.

"So, like, if we can pay, how do we find one of these places? Does the court have some sort of a list? Do we need to track down Mrs. Atwood's lawyer and ask him. What's the deal?"

Ryan was still talking in a low voice behind her, but she was paying him no attention. Sometimes, boys were very stupid and thought – well, not even with their dicks -- but with their pride.

The Cohens would never let Ryan turn down this offer, and she wouldn't either. If she couldn't tell the Cohens, she'd somehow have to become the Cohens. After all, it wasn't like her father was likely to bat an eye at yet another "spa retreat" on the credit card, not with the step-monster's stellar record.

The deputy was explaining the situation to her with open amusement as Ryan wound himself up tighter and tighter behind her, but she didn't care. Sometimes, money could take care of things, and Ryan needed to learn that lesson without feeling like a charity case. There were only so many Manolo size sixes any one girl could own.

There was a deep rumbling somewhere in the bowels of the building, and buzz and a clank announced the opening of a cell door somewhere just beyond their sight line.

The deputy looked up, startled.

"Oh, it's after ten already," he said. "That's the prisoner transport now. They'll all be taken over to the courthouse on High Street. I'll give you directions. Her public defender's liable to be Pat Rafferty; he's the P.D. who usually draws the indigent cases on weekends. Tell him that Jim Hansen asked you to see if you could set up a diversionary sentence. You can explain it all to him, and he'll take you through it," he added.

Sumer nodded, grabbing a pen from the desk to write down all of the information. She noticed, finally, that Ryan had not only gone silent, but was completely still again. She looked over at him, then to where he was staring off above her head.

There was a ragged line of prisoners chained to one another, already wearing bright-orange jumpsuits. They were mostly men, Hispanic and black, but there were a few white guys and two women. One of the women was young, practically the same age as Summer and Ryan, a Latina with long, dark hair pulled into a braid. The other had to be Dawn.

"Mom?" She heard Ryan say softly, then louder, "Ma?"

The woman turned towards the sound, and Summer nearly took a step back, shocked. Ryan rose to his feet, but Hansen put a restraining hand on his arm.

"Not now, son. You're going to have to wait until you get to the courthouse."

"Ry? Is that you, baby? Ryan?"

The older woman was calling his name; it had to be Dawn. Ryan licked his lips as if he were going to answer, but nothing more came out. Another deputy signaled to someone far down one of the hidden hallways, and suddenly, the coffle of prisoners started to move.

"Ryan! Baby, I'm so sorry. Thank you for coming," she called as they were led away.

Summer had only seen Dawn once, at the Vegas Night where she had first called Cohen "Stanley." She barely remembered her, except for her rather spectacular, drunken fall, but she remembered a blowsy woman with Ryan's coloring, only a few years older than Kirsten.

This woman, she would never have picked put in a crowd. For one thing, she looked about sixty years old, with hair bleached white, teased and ratted so that an inch or so of dark roots showed. She was missing her top, front teeth, and her skin was pale and faintly jaundiced. Her thick, cheap make-up had smeared over the course of the night, which gave her face an oddly undefined look, but couldn't conceal the fading bruises at the corner of her mouth and under her left eye.

She was thin, and not in the Newport way. She sagged, worn out, as if someone had come along and sucked out, not just fat, but all of her muscles and connective tissue, leaving behind the shell of a woman, merely her skin and bones. She disappeared through a set of swinging doors, still calling Ryan's name.

Summer hadn't thought that it was possible for Ryan to shut down any further, but she was wrong. In the seconds it took for the door to close behind his mother, Ryan had become someone she had never seen before. She couldn't explain what it was, but in an instant, both Seth's earnest, slightly nerdy, Newport foster brother and the sad, scared boy of a moment before had disappeared.

He hadn't moved a muscle, but somehow, his whole posture had changed. He had retreated completely into himself, become someone whom Summer, under other circumstances, would have crossed the street to avoid. He shook Hansen's hand respectfully, and thanked him for his trouble, but Summer could see that Ryan Atwood had left the building several minutes before.


	5. Ch5 Backroom Maneuvering

They weren't even completely through the sad, plywood lobby and back out into the searing street -- where waves of heat were shimmering above the asphalt -- when Ryan turned to her and wordlessly held out his hand. She fumbled through her purse and came up with the crumpled pack of cigarettes, returning them without comment.

By the time they exited the building and crossed the street, Ryan had already lit up and was inhaling deeply, exhaling by blowing two furious plumes of smoke out of his nose. He looked like he was going to attempt to jump into the driver's seat, but she simply dangled the keys before him, and nudged him back around to the passenger side.

The inside of the car was broiling hot, the leather seats sticky and warm. She put down the windows at the same time she turned on the air-conditioning as high as it would go, and was hit with a blast of warm air.

"You have to give it a minute to kick in," Ryan snapped, and Summer was so relieved to hear him respond to _something_ that she decided to let his tone of voice slide, just this once.

"The deputy said that it's not too far to the courthouse," she ventured.

Ryan grunted his response. _Great._ She was going to have to start driving in first gear all the way in order to piss him off enough to get him to respond again.

Deputy Hansen had been true to his word, and the courthouse was not very far at all. Of course, by the time that they got there, and found a parking space, and found the front door, Ryan had smoked two more cigarettes and was looking faintly green.

There was a low wooden bench by the inside door, and she steered him towards it.

"Just sit here a minute," she ordered, "And give me back those cigarettes, you addict. You're gonna give yourself lung cancer before the day is through."

Ryan looked for a moment like he was going to protest, but she held out her hand impatiently, and he finally complied with a sigh.

"We should go," he said suddenly, catching a glance at the large clock that dominated the inner foyer, "We have to find out where she's being arraigned."

He was showing more animation than he had back at the station, but there was still something _off_ about his responses.

She made a quick decision.

"You don't look so good," she said.

He looked at her before running a hand over his tired, stubbled face.

"It's been a long day," he answered.

"Well, you have to make a good impression on the judge, or whatever, don't you? Why don't you go clean up a little, and I'll find the lawyer guy, and figure out where we have to be," she said firmly.

Whether it was a measure of either his genuine exhaustion, or another symptom of his strange behavior, Summer couldn't be sure, but he simply nodded and refused to argue further.

"Fine," he said after a minute, "I'll find a men's room and meet you back here in a couple minutes."

Summer stopped him before he could get up, rummaging through her purse. For once, she was glad that she had her everyday bag, and hadn't had a chance to exchange it for something more in line with her stealth sneaking-out outfit.

She gave a triumphant laugh as she found the small, leather pouch at the bottom of her bag.

"Ha. I knew it."

Ordinarily, she would have tossed it to him, and he would have caught it easily, but today, she wasn't sure he'd even realize she was hurling a projectile towards him. Instead, she pressed it against his chest.

"Here."

"What is this?" he asked, sounding, despite everything, faintly amused. "I don't think lip gloss is really going to help."

She resisted the urge to stick out her tongue at him.

"No lip gloss. Disposable razor, one of those toothbrush mini-thingies, maybe some mouthwash. A comb," she added pointedly.

"Do I even want to know why?" he asked as he unzipped the small case to confirm her inventory.

"Duh. It's for Daddy. Sometimes he gets called in when we're out places, and sometimes we don't have his car with his stuff in it. It's, like, for medical emergencies."

Ryan held up a pale blue mini-tube to the light.

"Kiehl's Close Shavers Blue Eagle Shave Cream is for medical emergencies? I'd have gone with band-aids, myself."

His mouth smiled for a moment, then he stood, suddenly taller than her again.

"Thanks, Summer. I'll, uh, be back soon."

She nodded, and waited until he disappeared around the corner at the end of the corridor to make her own way into the courthouse proper.

Quickly, she made her way to the Help Desk.

"Can you tell me where I can find Pat Rafferty?" she asked politely. The older man in a uniform that looked something like the deputy's, only in a forest green, looked up from his racing form at her. It appeared that the courthouse wasn't exactly jumping on a Saturday morning.

"The public defender?"

"Um, yeah, I guess so," she said. That was what Sandy Cohen had been, right? A free lawyer for poor people, like Ryan, like his mother.

"He's down the hall to the left there; going over the call of the list in one of the conference rooms. Court's gonna start in about fifteen minutes, though," the man added absently.

Summer nodded her thanks, but he had already returned his attention to the page. She followed his vague directions down the hall, but lucked out when only one conference room gave any indication of being occupied.

Hoping that Ryan was a slow, careful shaver, she knocked on the frosted-glass door, but didn't bother to wait for a response.

She entered, startling the two middle-aged men who sat at the conference table, a pile of already-battered manila folders in front of them. How was that even possible? Weren't these new cases?

One of the men had silver hair and wore a navy blazer over a pressed white shirt and striped tie. The other had dark brown hair shot with strands of grey. He wore a rumpled khaki jacket over a blue oxford shirt and a kelly-green knit tie. It didn't take a genius to guess which of the two lawyers was Pat Rafferty.

"Hi," she said, suddenly nervous, "Mr., um, Rafferty -- Esquire?" she added, just in case.

Right on the money. The guy with the bad tie nodded and sort of raised his hand in greeting.

"Can I help you?" he asked.

"Um, yeah. Do you have, like, a minute? I need to talk to you before you go into court," she said.

"Are you a client?" he asked, rifling through the small pile directly in front of him. "Because we'll have a moment to consult before the arraignment."

"Not exactly," she answered honestly, and he raised his eyes back to her again.

"I'm sorry, who are you?" he asked

Summer sighed in frustration.

"I'm your client's son's kinda foster brother's girlfriend. There, doesn't that just clear everything right up? Can you talk to me or what?" she demanded.

The older guy with the silver hair chuckled softly.

"She has a point, Pat," he said. Summer decided she liked him. Snappy dressers were smarter, apparently. No big surprise there.

"Very well. If you'll excuse me for a minute, Charles, I'm going to talk to -- whoever this is," the rumpled guy said with an indulgent smile.

She took a deep breath and reminded herself that she was doing this for Ryan.

"Summer Roberts," she said brightly, in her best Harbor School sing-song voice. "Thanks so much."

She sat down in one of the chairs across from the men and stared pointedly at the older lawyer, who simply smiled back at her, before gathering up several files.

"I'll just step outside while you two talk, then, shall I?" he said. "I need to make a few calls anyway."

With that, he gathered up his sleek, black leather case and walked out, leaving Summer sitting more or less across from the public defender.

"What can I do for you, Miss Roberts?" he asked, gesturing at the mound of papers that still surrounded him. "As you can see, we're on kind of a tight deadline."

She nodded, suddenly nervous again, and put her purse down on the table next to her, so she couldn't fidget with the clasp.

"I'm here about Dawn Atwood," she said, "But we have to talk fast."

"Dawn Atwood? Oh, yes, Mr. Meehan and I were just about to discuss her case," he said, looking relieved to have recognized the name, and pawing through his folders again.

"Yes, here she is -- oh -- this is going to be a little more complicated than we thought," he said suddenly, after perusing the top sheet of the file. "Who are you again?"

"It doesn't matter," she said quickly. Ryan was going to be searching for them any minute now. She smiled widely at the man. "I mean, I'm not really a part of this. Except, I am. Deputy Hansen sent me," she finally said.

Rafferty nodded, and continued to thumb through Dawn's folder.

"Jim Hansen? He sent you? What's the old dog want?" he asked with half his attention.

"I'm a friend of Ryan's. Ryan Atwood," she said.

"The minor child who no longer resides with my client?" Rafferty half-read the information from a page in the file in front of him.

"Um, yeah, I guess. Anyway, Deputy Hansen said that since she was just, like, a skanky drug addict and not actually, you know, really a dealer, you might be able to make a deal if we can -- you know -- get her into rehab," she said.

The lawyer nodded again, then closed the folder to concentrate his attention on her. For the first time, she could see that his faded green eyes looked kind.

"That's theoretically true, Miss Roberts. In reality, though . . . ."

She cut him off before he could continue.

"Yeah, yeah, I know. No money, no bed. We got the whole spiel. The thing is, we've got the money, or at least, I do. But you've got to set it up and make it look like a charity thing."

The lawyer blinked at her.

"Come again?" he said. "You're what, sixteen, seventeen?"

"Seventeen," she said. "But I'm from Newport Beach," she added, as if that explained everything.

Rafferty nodded again.

"I see."

"Do you?" she asked, relieved.

He rolled his eyes.

"No, actually, I don't. Not at all Look, I appreciate that you want to help your boyfriend's kinda foster brother's mother but . . . "

Summer cut him off again, deciding to lay all her cards on the table.

"Okay, so, I get that this is weird, but here's the deal. Ryan and I just drove, like, a hundred hours to get here because his stupid, skanky mother called him -- after she hadn't seen him for almost two years. His foster parents, or kinda foster parents, or whatever they are--not important--anyway, they would _totally_ be all over this, except he won't tell them anything about it. He thinks that he'd owe them too much if they helped out his mother."

She reached over and started to fiddle with the clasp of her purse.

"Anyway, he thinks he's got to, like, save the whole world. And sometimes you can't, or you can't without help, but he's a boy and he doesn't get it, and it's not fair that he runs all the way here just because she calls him or whatever. He needs to fix this, or she's going to just mess him up all over again. And he won't let me help. So you have to let me help, but you can't tell him about it," she spat out all in one breath.

Rafferty was fingering the edges of the folder again, still looking confused.

"Just -- walk me through this one more time," he asked.

She sighed.

"Here's the deal. Ryan wants to put his mom in rehab. The sheriff guy said she can go to rehab. No one can pay for it except me, but Ryan won't let me. I just need you to do," -- she waved her arms around in an ambiguous gesture -- "Whatever it is you do to make it okay for her to go to rehab instead of jail. Then, you tell me, I put it on my credit card, and you tell Ryan that a miraculous charity bed opened and everyone's all happy," she said. "It's not illegal. It's not even wrong. It's just -- _easier_."

The lawyer had already started shuffling through his papers as she spoke.

"What kind of facility were you thinking?" he asked.

Summer shrugged. She did have Daddy's black card for emergencies.

"Whatever. As long as we can do it today. It doesn't even have to be, like, the discount rehab."

"And her family thinks she'd be a good candidate for rehabilitation?" he asked absently.

Her _family_, at least the part of it that wasn't actually an active or an ex-felon, was probably wandering the halls by now, ready to kill her.

"Her family is a kid my age who just drove across California to make sure that his nasty-assed crack ho' of a mother doesn't go to prison like every single other member of his stupid family. I don't care if she's a good candidate or not. If Ryan thinks she is, she is."

God, who -- except maybe Ryan -- cared in the slightest what this skank did or did not want. Not that it mattered much anyway, since Summer was fairly certain that, given the choice, Dawn would jump at the chance to bypass prison for a 12-week stint in a step-monster level detox, complete with 300-thread-count sheets and freshly-squeezed fruit juice each morning

The lawyer looked up at her again with something approaching respect in his eyes.

"Fair enough. Let me bring Mr. Meehan back in here and we'll see if we can't work something out. It will all have to be above-board and in perfect order for the court, but I don't think we need to share all the details with Mrs. Atwood's son, do you?"

Summer almost shouted with relief.

"Excellent. I'm just going to go find Ryan, now, before he comes looking for me. Is there -- do you think he could see her before she goes?" she asked, as she got up, her legs peeling off the sticky, leather chair.

"He'll see her in the courtroom. We'll see what we can work out. I'll find you after the proceedings, Miss Roberts, and give you the pertinent information," he said with a smile as he stuck out his hand.

Faintly, in the background, she could hear Ryan's voice growing more impatient as he called out her name down the hall.

"Great, terrific," she said, as she dropped his hand and started towards the door.

"And, Miss Roberts--for the record?" Rafferty called out before she could escape. She stopped with one hand still on the door and half-turned towards him.

"What?" she snapped, but he merely smiled back at her.

"You're a very good friend," he said.

"Whatever, If Chino catches me in here with you, I'm going to be a very dead friend, so see you later, okay?"

She darted back out into the hallway, slipping the door shut quietly behind her, just in time to see the back of Ryan's shirt disappear around the corner. She made her way back towards the ladies' room, and paused outside its door, raising her voice slightly as she called out his name.

"Ryan? Chino? Where are you?" she called. A moment later, he reappeared.

"Where have you been?" he demanded angrily. "We've got to be in court in a few minutes."

"I found the public defender. He's going to meet with your mom before court, and then meet with us after. He said he thought that they'd be able to work something out."

"Work what out? Summer, what did you do?" he asked.

"Nothing. I just found the lawyer, that's all." She might not have been the proficient liar Cohen was, but she could hold her own when it counted.


	6. Ch6 The Courtroom

They found the strangely modern courtroom with very little trouble. Summer thought it would look like something out of _Law & Order_, with lots of mahogany and pictures of Washington crossing the Delaware. Instead, it looked like a cross between a community center and the DMV. Everything was brightly lit with fluorescent lights, and the "gallery" was just made up of rows of chrome seats with mauve covers; the carpet was an industrial grey, and the judge's bench was sort of a drywall partition with an office chair perched on top of it.

They were waved off from sitting in the first few rows by a couple of scowling sheriff's deputies, but they took a seat as close to the front as they could, Ryan slumped down, his hands diving in and out of the pockets of his hoodie as he fingered what was left of his crumpled pack of cigarettes. Summer wondered if it was possible to re-addict yourself in under twelve hours -- he certainly looked like he was badly in need of a fix.

Mr. Rafferty briskly made his way down the aisle towards the defendant's table, stopping briefly next to them to introduce himself to Ryan and tell him that the prosecutor had agreed to Dawn's stint in rehab.

Ryan had stood up to shake Rafferty's hand, and now scowled above Summer's head at the lawyer.

"Where's she going to go?" he asked, and Rafferty gestured with his bundle of manila folders.

"I've got the information somewhere in here. But the important part is that there's a facility with an open bed that can take her immediately," he said, with a significant look at Summer. If Ryan had been less tired, or less distracted, she knew that there was no way he would have missed it, but as it was, she thought they were in the clear, and she smiled brightly at Ryan as Mr. Rafferty hustled off to take his seat.

"See. Sometimes stuff just, you know, works out," she said.

Ryan sat back beside her with a huff, and glanced at her sideways.

"Summer, what did you do?" he asked again, but it was too late. The judge had entered the courtroom, and they all had to stand.

If the courtroom looked nothing like what Summer had imagined, the court proceedings were even worse. There were no dramatic speeches, no sarcastic remarks from the judge -- everything was dull, everybody murmured, and the courtroom itself managed to be both freezing cold and stuffy at the same time.

Summer had thought that _Atwood, Dawn_ would have come up first in the alphabetical scheme of things, but the court didn't seem to be following the alphabetical rules. So -- they sat -- through half a dozen DUI's, and a couple of drunk and disorderlies, the judge disposing of each them in a methodical, if not particularly swift manner. She could sense Ryan stiffen —holding his breath in anticipation -- only to let it out in short grunts of frustration as the prosecutor moved from _Logan_ to _Marshall_ to _Green_, with no apparent rhyme or reason.

Finally, just before she thought that Ryan was going to bolt for the doors, and a cigarette -- so tense was he beside her -- they called Dawn Atwood's case.

She came through a side door escorted by a bailiff, and if anything, looked worse under the fluorescent lights than she had at the sheriff's office. Her eyes were glazed, her make-up even more smeared than before, and her whole body was beset by fine tremors.

She didn't glance over at them, but Summer felt Ryan tense even more -- as if that was possible -- beside her. Dawn was escorted to the defendant's table, where she appeared to be nodding off, even as Mr. Rafferty spoke to her rapidly, waving the file with what Summer assumed were the rehab details in front of her.

After a minute or two, the judge called them to order and asked for a plea. Once again, the incomprehensible ballet began, as the two lawyers started to explain the deal they had worked out behind the scenes. Summer still didn't understand a word of what was going on, but Ryan had straightened up in his seat, and started to pay close attention.

Summer thought that a plea bargain was a done deal, but the judge asked several kind of rude questions about, among other things, Dawn's fitness as a parent, which had Ryan practically hyperventilating beside her. At one point, he nearly jumped to his feet, but Summer restrained him lightly, and he seemed to collect himself.

Throughout the proceedings, Dawn seemed barely aware, but she still managed to take offense at the judge's tone. For a moment, Summer was afraid that everything would fall apart, but in the end, the judge merely agreed that he'd sign off on the plea agreement, and stated that "for the sake of her children" he hoped Dawn would take advantage of the help she'd been offered.

In the end, it was easier than Summer had thought. They sat through the rest of the court proceedings after Dawn was taken out of the courtroom, up until the next recess, when Rafferty came to find them again.

"Okay, you're all set," he said cheerfully, waving a sheaf of papers at them as he jogged back down the aisle. "We don't have a whole lot of time, so let's see if we can take care of this right now," he added, with another significant look at Summer.

Ryan reached out for the papers in Rafferty's hand and skimmed the top page.

"Do I need to post a bond for her?" he asked, without looking up, "Or pay a fine -- or -- or something?"

"Yes. You can see the county clerk. Your mother's being processed right now, so as soon as you're done, you can pick her up," Rafferty added.

At that, both Ryan and Summer's heads snapped to attention.

"Wait," Ryan said forcefully, "I thought that you got her a bed in a rehab facility. What am _I_ supposed to do with her?"

Although, the lawyer seemed fairly startled by his question, Summer thought that it was the first sensible thing Ryan'd said in quite awhile.

"Well, since it's a private facility, she can be released on her own signature. I thought we'd made that clear," he said.

Summer hoped that Ryan was too agitated to notice the look of pity that crossed the older man's face briefly.

"We thought you'd _want_ to see your mother before she went away," he added gently.

Ryan bobbed his head and dropped his eyes back to the sheaf of paper.

"I do," he muttered, "But, um, when does she . . . when will she, uh, be admitted. And where is she going?"

The last was said with a sideways glare at Summer, but she refused to look him full in the face. Whatever. His mother wasn't going to jail, which had been the whole object of this exercise, hadn't it?

The lawyer reached out and awkwardly patted Ryan on the shoulder. Summer expected him to shy away from it, much as he had at the sheriff's office, but he seemed transfixed by the papers in front of him.

"It's a place called Sagewinds Lifeskills Center. It's in the desert, about an hour away. According to the terms of the plea agreement she just signed, it's _her_ responsibility to get herself there. That's why the bond figure may seem a bit on the high side. Incentive for her to actually make it there -- and to stay once she gets herself checked in. Make sure you get her there by the time indicated on the order. If you miss the deadline--a warrant _will_ be issued for her arrest -- and you'll forfeit the bond."

In a softer voice, after noticing that Ryan was flipping through the endless supply of papers in his hand, Rafferty spoke to Summer.

"They'll, uh, talk to you about the arrangements when you get there," he added. "The director said that it's not as unusual as you might think, to have a third party involved."

Summer rolled her eyes. Thank God this guy wasn't planning on joining the Homeland Security Team anytime soon. Nice stealth. Not.

"Thanks," she said shortly.

Rafferty glanced over at the empty bench, and then down at his watch. She understood the universal symbol for _Here's your hat, what's your hurry_, and nudged Ryan in the shoulder.

"Hey, Chino," she said, "We should probably figure out where to go."

Rafferty nodded at her gratefully, as Ryan finally looked up. Folding the papers carefully in his left hand, he caught the lawyer's eye and held out his right hand.

"Thanks, man," he said sincerely," I . . . I really appreciate this. She's kind of messed up right now, but my mom, she's not like this, not usually."

Rafferty smiled at him, and returned his handshake with a firm grip. Summer wanted to kiss him for keeping a straight face.

"I hope everything works out for you both," he said before releasing Ryan's hand and turning to go. "I hope this is what she needs."

He left with what Summer was coming to believe was his customary jog, and she nudged Ryan again.

"Hey," she said softly, "We should probably find your mom."

It took them a few minutes to find the County Clerk's office, and Summer could see that the events of the past twenty hours or so were starting to catch up with Ryan. He seemed dazed as they waited patiently in line behind a small group, his hands thrust into his jacket pockets and his eyes on the floor.

"Thanks," he said without looking at her, "I don't know what you did, but you obviously did something. I'll, uh, I'll find a way to pay you back."

Summer snorted, and hit him lightly on the arm.

"Please. If Seth can't pay me, like, the million dollars he owes me in lattes, I'm not exactly going to hunt _you_ down."

He still wouldn't look at her, studying his shoes intently instead. She realized with a start that he was wearing the heavy, steel-toed boots she'd seen only once before, the boots he had worn all summer on the construction site in Chino.

"It's not the same thing, and you know it," he whispered fiercely.

"I do know," she said, her voice rising slightly, "Because _this_ is important. Really important. It's . . . hey, look, we're friends, right, Chino?"

He finally looked up at her improbable segue, his eyes widened.

"Yeah -- I mean -- yeah, of course we are," he said, bewildered.

"I mean, outside of the fact that you're sort of Seth's foster-brother and Marissa's whatever and -- well, everything else. You and me, we're friends?"

He nodded again, as they shuffled forward one more place in line.

"You're not the only one who likes to make sure his friends are okay, okay? Maybe I thought someone should have _your_ back for a change," she said, and then, before he could protest, "I mean, at least while Cohen's off being his Cohen-y self. I know I'm no Captain Oats, but I'll do in a pinch, right?"

A momentary smile flashed across his face, and she felt something inside of herself relax. Maybe he was a stupid boy, with stupid boy pride, but he, of all people, could understand that impulse to protect a friend.

"Well, you know, no one really measures up to the Captain . . . " he started, but they were interrupted by the clerk.

"Atwood, Dawn? You're up next."

He started for the window, but Summer reached out and grabbed him by the sleeve.

"Uh, about the, um, fine or whatever? Can you. . . . how are you, um . . ."

She wasn't sure how to keep the fragile balance they had achieved and still ask the question, but Ryan solved the problem for her with another sad smile.

"I've got this covered," he said. "Construction money. From the summer. It was for Theresa and the -- the baby, but she was gone before I could give it to her."

For the first time since the beginning of their trip, she heard his voice waver at the mention of the vanished Chino bambino. Funny, she never thought of the loss of the baby as something Ryan would mourn.

He stepped away from her, and started filling out the endless paperwork that accompanied the bond.

It seemed, to Summer, that they'd been in this cold, half-deserted courthouse forever. It had taken forever for the arraignment, forever to arrange for Dawn's release, forever to pay the money she owed, forever to wait for Ryan's wayward mother. She alternated between being freezing cold and dropping her head muzzily towards sleep, as they sat on a side bench, waiting again, but Ryan had returned to that strange state of watchful relaxation he'd affected before they met the sheriff's deputy.

When Dawn finally emerged, Summer was tired, cold and _starving_, but she forgot all that in the face of -- the fact of -- well, there was Dawn Atwood -- standing in front of them.

She thought that Ryan was done with shocks for the day -- the shock of his mother's call, the shock of hearing the charges, the shock of seeing his mother in chains -- but none of that was anything -- not compared to the shock of seeing her in the flesh -- the substantial flesh -- and blood. She had exchanged the orange county jumpsuit for the clothes in which she'd been arrested -- an ill-fitting cotton tank top that bared the stretch marks on her sagging stomach, with an improbable, flaking, iron-on picture of a smiling kitten on the front, and a leopard-print mini-skirt barely wider than a belt that left nothing to the imagination. And, as a topper, or perhaps a bottom-er, what appeared to be plastic platform sneakers.

If the look on Ryan's face hadn't been so stunned, it almost would have been funny.

"Ryan! Kiddo, I'm so glad to see you," she said, sweeping him into a hug, oblivious to the way his whole body tensed as she touched him. After a moment, he stiffly put his arms around her in an awkward response.

"I -- I'm glad to see you, too, Mom," he almost whispered. "Why don't we . . . how about we get out of here?"

Dawn laughed, a brittle, harsh, artificial sound, and Ryan flinched.

"Amen to that. I just . . . I gotta hit the head, first."

Ryan nodded as she released him, and shot a desperate look over to Summer. Right. Operation Watch Dawn Atwood was now in session.

"That sounds great to me, actually," she said brightly, "I've been _dying_ to go for hours. I'll show you where it is."

Dawn looked over to her for the first time, and Summer saw her eyes narrow before she plastered a smile on her still-smeared face.

"You must be Marissa," Dawn cooed in a strange, high-pitched voice. "I've heard so much about you."

"Actually, Ma . . ." Ryan stepped in before she could actually sweep Summer up into another hug, thank God, "This is Summer. Seth's girlfriend. She was nice enough to drive me all the way here."

"Oh, well, good for her," Dawn mumbled, this time in her regular, hoarse voice, "Thanks."

By the time they hit the ladies' room, Summer was regretting it. Dawn was unsteady on her feet, and drew what few eyes were left in the courthouse towards her with every step. She also smelled, a combination of body odor, urine and cheap, cheap perfume that made Summer want to gag.

Dawn banged into a stall, carrying the cheap vinyl purse she'd had slung over her shoulder, and Summer slumped against the sinks, her own bag in hand.

The police would have searched her, right? She couldn't still have drugs on her somewhere. Even up _there_.

"Everything okay?" she called out after a few silent minutes, punctuated by some ominous banging, but there was no answer. When Dawn finally emerged, Summer realized that she was shaking even worse than she'd been in the courtroom.

"Oh, are you cold?" she asked as Dawn staggered over to her and the sinks. "I've got a sweater in the car . . . "

"No thanks, sweets," Dawn said, with a rueful look in the mirror. "Say, you don't have anything in that bag that could tide me over for a few hours, do you?"

Summer made a show of rummaging through her purse.

"Midol?" she asked, and Dawn shot her a look as her eyes narrowed again.

"Look, toots, I know all you Newport princesses aren't as goody-two-shoes as my Ryan. Can't you just cut me a break, for Christ's sake?"

Summer shook her head slowly, and offered her cosmetics case instead.

"Sorry. Really. Midol's all I have. I've got some wipes, though, if you want to, you know, freshen up?" she said hopefully.

Dawn glared at her for a minute, but after another quick look in the mirror, she decided to take Summer up on her offer. Which meant that by the time they returned to Ryan, the blurry make-up was gone, leaving her looking far cleaner, but also far older, than she had before. And the bruises under her eye and around her mouth now showed up in stark relief on her wan, sweating face.

Ryan was pacing outside the bathroom doors when they emerged, and the look of relief on his face was quickly replaced by anger as he caught his first glimpse of his fresh-faced mother.

"It's fuckin' A.J., isn't it, Mom? He did this to you!" he demanded, and Dawn seemed to shrink back against Summer.

"Now, Ry, c'mon. Don't get all worked up about A.J.," she said, holding out her hands defensively.

Summer saw him take a deep breath, and flex his hands against his sides.

"I'm not pissed at you, Mom," he said softly, and grabbed her hands in his carefully, "I'm not. I'm just pissed _for_ you."

She crumpled, just a little bit, at that and allowed herself to led back out towards the car.


	7. Ch7 DriveThru Interlude

Outside, it was early afternoon, and the shock of the searing heat after the cool interior of the courthouse was making Summer dizzy. Except for the few hours of sleep she'd caught in the car, she'd been awake for over twenty-four hours, and Ryan hadn't slept at all. Yet when they returned to the SUV, he held out his hands for the keys expectantly.

"Oh, I don't think so," she snapped. "You're going to drive us all into a ditch somewhere. Not to mention that we've got to stop somewhere and get something to eat before we start driving into the desert. Again."

He looked down at her and sighed. Dawn was already slumped against the back door, shaking, but she lifted her head at in response to Summer's sharp tone.

"You don't have to take me nowhere, kiddo. You've already done enough. You can just drop me off by home. I'll be fine."

Ryan looked at her, raw disbelief written all over his face.

"You can't go home, Mom. Look at what he did to you. Look at your face," he said.

Dawn shrugged and dropped her eyes back to the pavement, and Summer's stomach tightened -- as she was suddenly reminded of Ryan, waiting in line, refusing to meet her eyes. Ryan -- coloring aside -- didn't look that much like his mother, but their wounded-animal gestures were mirror images of one another.

"It's not that bad," she mumbled.

"It's not that good, either, Ma!" he snarled, and Summer realized that he was going for the keys only after he had snatched them from her. "Why are you back with him? What were you thinking?"

If anything, Dawn's tremors were growing as she tried to answer him, and Summer, realized, to her horror, that Dawn was about to cry.

"He loves me, baby. He's just got a little temper. You remember, he used to be so nice to us, when things were going well . . . ."

"When were things ever going well, Ma? He beat the shit out of us -- you and me _and_ Trey. He's a bully. And now he's got you, what, running dope for him? Back on the junk again? You can't do this, Mom! You can't! You have to . . . ."

Ryan's words were practically tripping over themselves. Summer watched, fascinated, as he turned away from them both, his shoulders heaving as he breathed shallowly.

When she had first met him, she'd actually thought that Ryan had asthma, from the way he sometimes lost his breath like this, but she was beginning to recognize it as the beginning of a panic attack. She hadn't seen him like this since Oliver, so pent-up and overwrought.

She watched as his whole body tensed, and he struggled for a moment, then drew in a massive, shuddering breath. A minute later, he let it out in a long, slow sigh, and she saw his shoulders relax marginally. By the time he turned back around, his breathing was soft and steady, and his whole demeanor had changed.

He handed her back her keys with an apologetic smile.

"Sorry, you're right. I'm in no shape to drive."

He turned back to his mother, and put a tentative hand on her arm.

"Mom, hey, Mom? You know what? Summer's right. I don't know about you, but I'm starving. Let's get some lunch, and we'll talk about what we're going to do next, okay?" he said, and nodded to Summer to open the car door.

Talking in the same soft voice he might have used to coax a toddler into the bath, Ryan managed to get a shaking, crying Dawn into the back seat. As Summer climbed into the driver's seat, Ryan caught her eye in the rearview mirror.

"Can you hand me one of those sodas?" he asked softly. "Not the diet ones -- the ones I got for me."

"Ew. They're going to be all gross and hot," she said, but he shook his head.

"Doesn't matter. The sugar will help a little with the withdrawal, at least until we can hit a drive-through. I'm sorry, we can't go in anywhere -- not like this," he gestured with his head to where his mother was hunched over on the seat.

Summer fished around the broiling interior of the car until she found their abandoned grocery bag, and handed over a bottle of Coke that was actually hot to the touch.

"Sorry, Mrs. Atwood, it's pretty gross," she said, but Dawn appeared not to hear her.

"C'mon, Ry, baby. You know that doesn't do shit to help. Just drop me off near home. I'll be fine, and you won't need to think about me. Not ever again . . . " she wheedled.

In the mirror, Summer saw Ryan flinch, and close his eyes briefly, but his voice stayed soft and calm.

"Ma, you know I always think about you -- and wonder how you're doing. I wrote you letters at your last address. They never came back, so I thought you got them. How can I not worry about you when you're all strung out like this? Here, take a sip -- you'll feel better," he said.

Summer had turned on the car and rolled down the windows, but the sweat was pouring down her back, and the stench -- a combination of Eau de Dawn, the stale butts in the ashtray and her own perspiration -- was making her sick to her stomach.

"I'm just going to start driving back towards the center of town," she said, as cheerfully as she could muster. "There were plenty of restaurants back that way. Anyone have a preference?" she asked, but wasn't particularly surprised not to get a response.

As soon as was humanly possible, she turned the air-conditioning on full blast, but left the windows down as she listened to Ryan murmuring to his mother, coaxing her to drink just a little bit more. Whatever had triggered his outburst by the side of the car was well-hidden now, and his face was as carefully blank as his voice was soft.

By the time she reached the edge of the main strip, Dawn was crying again, begging Ryan.

"C'mon, baby, just a little stop. I know you hate it, but I won't do it anymore after that, Please, kiddo, I'm dyin' here."

Summer swung into the driveway of the first fast-food restaurant she saw. She hadn't even registered what it was -- it could have been an Arby's -- she just wanted to do something to help.

"Um, Ryan?" she asked as she took her place in line behind all the rest of the lunchtime crowd, "Is there anything special . . . " she let the thought trail off as she saw him look up and catch her eye again in the rear-view mirror. He was trying for a smile, she supposed, but it looked more like a grimace of pain.

"She needs sugar. Another couple sodas, maybe a shake? I don't think she'll keep anything else down. Maybe a couple hamburgers for us?" he added, and he started to scoot up on his knees to find his wallet.

"Don't worry about it," she ordered, and for a moment she thought he would fight her, but then Dawn began to whimper again, and he gave up without a struggle.

By the time they had each wolfed down a couple of burgers and coaxed another soda and half a chocolate shake into Dawn, the windows of the car were covered in condensation, and the sun had long passed its zenith. Dawn appeared to be dozing in the back seat, and Ryan was still seated next to her, his head thrown back against the headrest, eyes closed, his left hand pinching the bridge of his nose.

"Ryan?" Summer half-whispered, but he opened his eyes immediately.

"Yeah?"

"What time do we have to be there?" she asked, "It's already after two."

"The order says she's got until midnight. And the facility has a 24-hour intake, but they said that if we get there before six, they'll have a full staff on. In the condition she's in -- I-I'd just feel better about it if we can get her there by six."

"Oh, um, the thing about the 24-hour intake -- and the staff -- was that in the brochure?"

"No. I called the number while you guys were in the bathroom. I talked to someone named Cathy, we're supposed to ask for her if we get there before six."

"So, should we -- what should we do?" she asked, sort of gesturing to the nodding Dawn.

"We should probably stop and get her stuff," he said, wearily, "I wouldn't put it past A.J to dump it all when he realized she's gone. _If_ he even realizes she's gone 'til he needs his next fix and he's got no money coming in. Whatever."

He sat up straight and ran a hand through his hair again.

"It's not like she'll have much, anyway," he said, and shifted, patting the pockets of his discarded hoodie, and pulling out the crumpled pack. "I'm just gonna step outside and have a smoke, do you care?"

She gathered up the remainder of their lunch.

"No, I'll stay here with your mom. Go do whatever. I've got your back," she said, in her best tough-girl voice, and was rewarded with a half-smile for her troubles. "Take the lunch stuff with you, though, could you?"

Ryan reached for her bag of trash and -- just like that -- Dawn was awake again. Ryan's body was still half-leaning over the arm rest of the car when she reached out for him. Summer didn't see exactly what she did, but Ryan practically flew back across the car, plastering himself against the passenger door.

"Mom!" he shouted, "Don't! You promised."

He sounded so mortally, terribly offended, that for a moment Summer couldn't figure out what he meant. She was pretty sure that, for most families, a mother's promise not to be a heroin-addicted junkie whore who calls her teen-aged son for bail -- or abandons him with with strangers -- or lets him get hit by her on-again off-again lover/drug dealer -- was implicit. But regular rules didn't seem to apply in the Atwood family. So, Summer fleetingly entertained the thought that maybe Dawn had actually _verbalized_ this promise to Ryan -- as improbable as that would be.

"Come on, baby, you know I can make it good for you. Better than your rich bitch girlfriend. Just give me a little hit, and I'll do anything you want -- _anything_" Dawn reached for him across the back seat.

Summer knew that if there was a way to claw himself outside of the car, Ryan would have found it by now. His back was pressed firmly against the door, and he was alternating between hunching over himself protectively and pulling back away from his mother. The look on his face -- a mixture of pity, disgust and outright terror -- made Summer want to cry.

Instead, she decided that an intervention was called for.

"Mrs. Atwood -- Dawn," she called, and as soon as the woman's attention was pinned on her, Ryan found the door handle and scrambled out of the back seat.

"What?" Dawn slurred, and Summer was pretty sure -- not that it made it any better -- that she couldn't tell Ryan from a hole in the ground right about now.

"Just hang in there a little longer. We're going to go get your stuff now, and then the nice people at Sagewinds are going to make you feel better. You must be really tired after your long night, hunh?"

It amazed her that that what Peggy had said about Cotillion skills being useful in real life might actually be true. Drunken Newpsie or druggy whore, everyone responded to polite conversation. Dawn was doing her best to focus on her as Ryan opened the front passenger door and slid into the front seat. For a moment, it looked like Dawn might lunge for him again, but she blinked heavily and leaned back against her own seat, instead, her eyes closing involuntarily.

Without a word, Summer opened the small dashboard ashtray, upended its contents into the remains of their lunch, and pushed in the dashboard lighter. She handed the bag to Ryan, who lowered his window briefly and chucked it in the general vicinity of the trash cans ringing the outside of the parking lot. His face still flushed, he slowly unclenched his right fist, stopped squeezing the life out of the remaining cigarettes, and extracted one with shaking fingers as he waited for the lighter to pop.

"No offense, Chino," she whispered, with a sidelong glance at the slumping Dawn, "But one of those had better be for me."

He laughed a little, quietly, and pulled another cigarette out of the dwindling remains. With the same unself-conscious ease of their earlier ride, he put both into his mouth and lit them, one after the other, then passed one to Summer wordlessly.

The filter tasted very faintly of ketchup and mint toothpaste, much like Ryan himself must. She took a deep drag, which was her first mistake. She hadn't really smoked since Coop got caught shoplifting a pack of Virginia Slims during their freshman year, and her father had made her watch a two-hour slide show of diseased lungs on the big-screen television in the family room.

She coughed, and Ryan patted her on the back automatically, as they both craned their necks towards the back seat. Dawn stirred, but didn't totally awaken as she started to pick at the skin on her arms.

"We'd better get going," Ryan said when Summer had recovered enough to breathe, "Before things get any worse."

"Ookay," she agreed, still slightly breathless, "But where the hell are we going? Princess Charming back there is out like a light, and "_I'm_ sure as hell not waking her up again."

Ryan raised an eyebrow at that, but didn't disagree.

"I know where she's staying. It's the same place where we always used to stay when we were kids. The Wonder Lodge. I've got the address," he added, pulling the same crumpled looseleaf out of his pocket again.

She programmed the GPS, and he took the remains of her unsmoked cigarette from her without a sarcastic comment, sticking it in his mouth to replace the one he had just finished. He was going to need to run about a thousand laps before his lungs -- or his coach -- would forgive him for this weekend.


	8. Ch8 The Wonder Lodge

The Wonder Lodge lay just off the main casino strip, on a dingy sidestreet that housed a laundromat, two betting parlors and a fried-chicken shop. The motel itself was an old motor-court lodge, each of the rooms of its two stories facing a parking lot made of broken asphalt, and what looked the remains of a swimming pool, now cracked and half-filled only with dingy brown rainwater. The sign facing the street had once sported neon racers, but they were not lit up in the glaring afternoon sun, though its marquee proudly proclaimed "Rooms by the Week, Day or Hore!" She wondered if the misspelling was intentional.

The place had certainly seen better days as had -- a quick look through the parking lot confirmed -- most of its residents. There were a number of rusted-out, American sedans parked crookedly in the lot, with the Starsky and Hutch era well-represented. Several of the second-floor rooms had laundry draped over the common balcony railing, and there were three separate clumps of dirty kids chasing each other and a mangy, dust-colored dog around the open, un-fenced-in pool, with no apparent supervision.

Good. Lord. If Ryan had led her to a trailer park, it couldn't have been more of a cliche. She tried, and failed, to picture him as a snot-nosed kid, chasing Trey around a hopefully-cleaner pool right here. No, Ryan was probably locked in a room somewhere with a book, unless he'd changed drastically over the last few years.

She glanced over to the passenger seat, where Ryan was eyeing the screaming kids with distaste.

"Home sweet fucking home," he muttered, and for the first time, Summer actually saw him squirm a bit with embarrassment.

"You know, I always think it's nice when people are loyal to the same spots, even when they go downhill a little. I mean, Daddy still takes us to Cabo every Spring, even though that's _so_ not the hot place to go anymore," she babbled. Could she sound any more like Cohen if she tried?

Ryan glanced at the back seat, where Dawn had slumped over on her side, her arm now bleeding lightly from where she'd been scratching at it rhythmically in her sleep.

"Yeah, that's my mom," he said dryly. "She's really into the classics."

"Do you have any idea . . . ." She started to ask.

"No. None at all. I'm going to have to wake her up," he answered tightly.

Carefully, as though he were about to poke a sleeping tiger, he reached his arm into the back seat and gently stroked Dawn's thigh. She jumped at his touch, and Ryan jumped at her reaction.

"Ry? Jesus Christ, baby, you about gave me a heart attack! How many times does Mama have to tell you not to wake her up?"

Summer wasn't sure that Dawn was all there.

"Mom? Mom, it's Ryan. We're at the motel. You need to give me your key, so I can get your stuff for you," he said, his patient, sing-song voice returning.

Not for the first time, Summer gave a silent thanks that the step-monster was mostly a do-it-yourself drunk, with only an occasional assist required for an away pick-up.

"What? No, honey, no. I'm fine. You don't need to walk me home. I can take it from here. I'll tell A.J. you said hi," she muttered, still scratching.

Ryan sighed as she waved him off.

"Really, I'll be just fine. I just have to make a quick stop, and everything will be fine."

"Ma -- Dawn -- you can't stay here, remember? Remember we talked about this? We're going to get your stuff and then take you to a nice hotel. They're going to help you feel better. Remember that?" he asked, a little desperately.

Dawn snorted and started to look around for her missing purse.

"Oh, honey. There's no need for that. I'm perfectly fine," she said.

"Mom. Don't you remember court? The judge? If you don't do this, they're going to put you in jail," he said, more urgently.

She reached forward, and Ryan looked like he was going to recoil, but she just patted his cheek clumsily.

"Ry, you always were my good one, weren't you? They're never going to check. They don't care about me, kiddo. I'm small potatoes. You can go back to your rich family and your fancy school -- you don't have to worry about me."

Summer watched as the small spark of something she had seen dampen down at the sheriff's office finally died out in Ryan's eyes. He closed them, seemingly to concentrate on his careful, shallow breathing.

"Mom, I _do_ worry about you. I'll always worry about you. This isn't how you want to live, trust me. Let these people help you. Let _me_ help you. Please," he added, and Summer saw a flash of hate and pain and fear and guilt all at once when he opened them again. At that moment, she would have chosen to be nearly anywhere else in the world -- Algebra class, mid-bikini wax, a dinner with Caleb Nichol -- if it meant she did not have to be in this car one moment longer.

Dawn smiled at him vacantly.

"Please, Mom, please," he repeated. "I can't leave you here. I can't. Not like this. Let us take you to Sagewinds -- it sounds really nice. You don't have to pay for a thing. And, when you get out, you can get a place closer to home -- closer to me and Trey -- leave A.J. here," he was begging, and it seemed wrong to Summer that she was still a witness to this. "Please."

Dawn seemed to look at Ryan for the first time since they'd gotten into the car.

"Don't be so upset, kiddo. I'm all right. Really. But if it'll make you feel better, I'll give this Tradewinds place a try. No harm, no foul, right, Ry?"

"No harm, no foul, Ma," he echoed weakly. "Now, let me go get your stuff."

He reached down for the vinyl purse wedged under the driver's seat at the same time Dawn did, but his reflexes, even stressed out and tired, certainly beat those of a woman in the early stages of the DT's.

"C'mon, Ry. Knock it off. I'll just go talk to A.J., and get what I need. You and your girlfriend can wait here," she said.

Ryan just grunted and opened the bag, sticking a reluctant hand into it.

"Am I going to get stuck, Ma?" he asked, and Dawn shook her head, irritated.

"No. You know they took everything . . . "

Ryan interrupted her with a snort of triumph.

"Ha. Room key. Number 110, it's down the end of the row, it looks like," he said to Summer, pointing out an empty space beside a black Pontiac Fiero. She carefully put the car back into gear and angled into the broken spot.

"You know you can't go in there, Mom. You know why. Just let me get your stuff for you," he said again. "Is A.J. going to be home?"

The corners of Dawn's mouth were still drawn down, but the fine tremors were starting again, and Summer could see that she was starting to lose focus again.

"Fine, whatever. Don't forget to get the stuff under the mattress -- you always forget that," she said with a pout.

"Mom -- A.J.?"

She shook her head as she started to scratch her other arm, watching her own fingers with fascination.

"He's usually at OTB this time of day," she said.

"Won't he wonder where you've been?" Ryan asked, and Dawn shrugged, refusing to look at him.

"Probably not. I called him last night before I called you -- he wouldn't come and get me," she muttered. "Bastard."

Ryan sighed, and clutched the room key in his hand.

"Yeah, you really got yourself a winner there, hunh, Mom?" he said under his breath.

He hopped out of the car without another word, the old-fashioned key on its wooden key chain dangling from his finger. He made his way to the corner room with no trouble, and opened the battered, leaning screen door. Before he inserted the key in the lock, however, the inner door swung open.

Oh, that was probably not a good sign. Not at all.

Before Ryan could move, or react in any way, the man -- it had to be A.J. -- emerged onto the breezeway. This was not some Harbor School water polo player. This was bad.

The man was huge -- the top of Ryan's head barely cleared his nose -- with the kind of upside-down muscles Summer had only ever seen in prison movies where some cast member from the _Valley_ became some gang member's bitch. Adding to the effect was the flannel shirt, its sleeves torn off, and the huge tattoo that wrapped around his bulky arm, which looked, at least from a distance, to be a dragon or a snake wrapped around some Gothic letterings. Seth would probably know exactly what gang that represented, but Summer didn't especially care.

He was in bare feet, and dirty jeans, and his greasy hair was done up in what she always privately thought was a modified Elvis -- a bouffant-y, D.A.-type thing that somehow -- and improbably -- managed to look not the slightest bit effeminate on the man.

"What the fuck do you want, Baby Atwood?" he roared, and Summer could hear him even with the windows rolled up and the engine and air conditioner on. "I thought you were livin' the life of Riley up in _alzado_ Newport Beach. If you're looking for that slut bag of a mother -- she ain't here."

Summer didn't know what to do. Behind her, Dawn was watching the scene unfold silently. If she was Cohen, would she be out there, trying to have Ryan's back, or in here, trying to keep an eye on his mother? Crap.

She fished around for her purse, which Ryan had tossed to the floor at some point, never taking her eyes off the confrontation before her. At the very least, she'd find her damn cell and be ready to call 911. Although, who would that get in trouble? Ryan? Dawn? A.J.? All three? Double crap.

"You see the _almeja_, buddy boy, you tell her she owes me a shitload of cash, you _comprende_?"

Summmer realized that A.J. was holding a bottle of beer loosely between his fingers.

"Don't call her that," Ryan snapped.

Call her what? Why hadn't she taken Spanish class when she'd had the chance. Stupid French. Stupid seventh-grade trip to Paris.

Without even bothering to take the weight off his back foot, A.J. backhanded Ryan across the face, hard enough to make him stumble.

"Oh-ho. Look who's grown some _aguacates_ up there on the beach, hey, _manito_?"

Ryan shook his head, his back still to the car, but Summer thought she saw blood fly.

"Leave her alone," he said. "She's not coming back. I'm just here to get her stuff."

"Since when do you run her errands for her, Baby Atwood? She ain't gettin' shit from me. Not until I get what's owed me."

"Oh yeah, owed you for what? For having her run your drugs for you? Big man. And then you leave her in jail? Just give me her stuff, A.J., and you'll never have to hear from us again."

Ryan made what looked like an aborted attempt to get around the mountain of flesh and through the front door, but A.J. pushed him back, sending him to the ground. He was up before Summer really had time to register it, and was standing before A.J. again, fists clenching and unclenching.

"I don't owe you shit, dickwad. You hooked her back on the junk!"

With a casual movement, A.J. threw away the bottle in his hand. It landed by Summer's front, right tire, and she jumped. Behind her, in the rearview mirror, she saw Dawn look up from the lesions on her skin and look around dully.

"What's A.J. doin' home?" she asked.

"I don't fucking know," Summer snarled. "Apparently, kicking your son's ass."

With another casual movement, A.J. slapped Ryan again, this time with his other hand. This time Ryan was able to stand his ground.

"Watch your mouth, there, _manito_. I didn't make her do nothin' she didn't already want to do. What did you think it was gonna be like after you left? All sunshine and fuckin' roses?"

Summer wished she could see Ryan's face, but his body language was freaking her out enough. His back, under his t-shirt, was stiff and tense, and his hands continued to clench and unclench.

"I. Didn't. Leave," he hissed, each word a separate, poisonous syllable. "I got kicked out, remember? And then, when I tried to come home, you were gone -- just like that -- no address, no nothing. What the fuck was I supposed to do?"

"Yeah, well, if you'd really cared, you'da been here before now, right, _manito_?"

With an inarticulate cry, Ryan launched himself at the older, bigger man, but to no avail. Calmly, almost mockingly, A.J. caught Ryan and pushed him back, before winding up his fist and connecting, hard, against his nose. Ryan's head snapped back, his body following in slow motion. He fell backwards to the pavement, and didn't get up again. Almost casually, A.J. lifted a bare foot and poked at him, then kicked him, hard--once, twice, three times in the side.

"You gonna act like a man, you better get up and fight me like one, _guero_"

Summer heard Ryan groan, and saw his head start to shake back and forth. As he began to pull himself to his knees, A.J. reached down and slapped him, open-handed, upside the head.

Summer wanted to throw up. She'd seen Chino throw down before, she'd even seen him get his ass kicked, but this was like watching a cat with a mouse. He was completely outmassed. And A.J. obviously knew which buttons to push.

This guy could kill Ryan without half-thinking about it, and Ryan, being Ryan, would never back down. For the first time, it occurred to Summer that Ryan wasn't just playing a role as some tough kid from Chino. He really was a tough kid from Chino. Jesus. It was painfully obvious that this was not the first time this particular scenario had played itself out.

"Jesus Christ, A.J.! What the fuck? What do you think you're gonna do -- sell her crappy clothes and a box of pictures on Ebay for millions? Just give me her fucking stuff already, and I'll leave you the hell alone," he said in a surprisingly strong voice.

Summer shuddered as a slow, cold smile crossed the big man's face.

"What's it worth to you, _manito_?" he asked as he reached down and hauled Ryan up by his shirt collar, setting him on wobbly feet.

"What's it worth to me? You want me to pay you? For the crappy stuff my mom already owns?"

A.J. reached out to slap him again, but this time Ryan countered, knocking the arm away.

Summer was impressed. She'd be crying for her mother by now. Of course, her mother wasn't sitting in the backseat of an SUV, picking disinterestedly at her arms as her younger son got his head knocked into the pavement, either.

A.J. came at him from the other side, and this time Ryan's head rocked at the blow.

"Fine. Whatever. You can have whatever I've got in my wallet, A.J., please. Just let me get her stuff and get out of here,"

A.J. looked a little disappointed at Ryan's acquiescence, but then that same slow smile crossed his face again.

"Oh, I'm taking that anyway. Your mother's fuck-up cost me a big chunk of the A.J. Vasquez Retirement Fund. What else you got, _chupamondo_?"

At the last word, his voice dropped low, and he leaned into Ryan's dazed face, crowding his space.

"Fuck you, A.J.," she heard, and then she saw a wad of bloody spittle land on the bigger man's cheek. Oh, that wasn't smart.

Without another word, he pulled his arm back and hit Ryan as hard as he could. For the next minute or so, Summer couldn't even identify what A.J. was doing to him.

This was nothing like the movies. There was no soundtrack, no wacky chair-breaking noises, and apparently, no cavalry. She had no idea what to do, and she was appalled to learn that it was possible to tell the difference between the whisper-dry sound of a fist hitting an arm or leg, and the wet plop of a first hitting a bloodied face.

A.J. was breathing hard, with Ryan limp in his grip, dangling from his shirt collar. Summer was about to say to hell with it and call the cops, when the large man looked up and seemed to zero in on her SUV. Up until then, he apparently had not cared enough to wonder how Ryan had managed to show up on his doorstep in the middle of a Saturday afternoon. In Nevada.

He dropped Ryan--who fell with a thud to his hands and knees, retching--and sauntered over to the car. For the first time, Dawn seemed more than a disinterested, whimpering spectator, and Summer scrambled to engage not only the electric locks, but the child-proof latches in the back seat. If Ryan didn't want his mother out there, Dawn was not getting out of the car.

A.J. leaned in towards the driver's window, and Summer wondered, fleetingly, how hard someone would have to hit a glass window to make it shatter.

"Get away," she ordered, aware of how ridiculous she sounded. "Leave us alone."

A.J. chuckled and looked into the backseat of the car.

"There's my bad girl," he said in a voice that put every hair on Summer's arm to attention.

"Hey, Baby," Dawn cooed, "I got in some trouble, babe."

Summer saw a bloody Ryan lurch to his feet and stumble towards the car.

"Get away from them, A.J.," he said in a hoarse voice, and the larger man turned in time to push him down again, this time onto the rough parking-lot surface.

"Or what, _manito_? You gonna run into my fist again?"

"A.J., you gotta leave Ryan alone now. He's just helping me out. The courts -- the courts say I gotta go away for awhile," Dawn continued, oblivious. "You can keep the rest of the stuff. Just let him get my box and some clothes. C'mon, lover, you and me, we can even party together while the kids are inside packing up."

Oh, good Christ. Summer was beginning to think that the step-monster deserved the biggest box of legal pharmaceuticals she could find next time they were in TJ, just for being not _this_ much of a skank.

A.J. looked for a moment as if he were considering it, then shook his head, regretfully.

"Sorry, babe. You know my stuff is worth more than a five-dollar fuck from a backalley whore. Whaddya gonna do?"

Please, somewhere there was a _Valley_ marathon waiting just for her. Somewhere far, far from this conversation.

"Ryan, Ry? I need you to help your Mama out, kiddo. Give A.J. what he wants," Dawn ordered, her voice slurring as her shakes started to increase.

Summer looked down at Ryan, sprawled out and bloody against the black of the parking lot, and recognized something in his bloody, beaten face.

It was the same feeling she'd gotten when, at age nine, her father sat her down and told her that his new wife wanted to go to Cabo, and not Disney World, for Summer's upcoming birthday. It was the same feeling she'd gotten when her beloved father put her on the Atkins diet, at age eleven, after the step-monster complained that her pre-teen curves were making it impossible for Summer to be seen with her in public.

It was the realization, that somehow never grew less bitter over repetition, that something -- hell, that everything -- was more important than you. She was pretty sure that, if they had their way, she and Ryan would be a united force in making sure that Cohen never even knew that such a sentiment was in the realm of possibility.

A.J. looked down at the boy at his feet with a smirk before hauling him upright on his knees for a second time in less than ten minutes.

"What's the matter, _mariquita_, eh? You didn't tell your pretty little girlfriend here the rules? What's the rule, _manito_?" he asked, as he began to lay open-handed blows on Ryan's face again. "What's the number one rule?"

Finally, spitting out a mouthful of blood, and staring up at his tormentor with fire in his eyes, Ryan spat, "If you want to party, A.J.'s got to come."

Okay, as mottos went, that was pretty stupid, but she wasn't sure what all the . . .

_Fu-uck._

"Leave him alone," she ordered again, panicking, but Ryan turned his face away from her. "Seriously. Leave him alone."

What the hell was wrong with, well, with every single person in Ryan Atwood's whole life, for starters. Who would make a kid do something like that?

"Jesus Christ, A.J.," she heard Ryan say softly, "You don't even want her anymore. I'm just trying to get her some help."

She heard him take a deep breath, and then pull himself painfully to his feet.

"Whatever. Just, can we take this inside at least, before someone calls the goddamn cops?"

His eyes never left the ground and he sounded utterly defeated. Behind her, she heard Dawn start to whimper.

"Don't you hurt him, A.J." she said. Oh sure, now. It was a little late for that, wasn't it, Dawn?

"Ryan," Summer finally said, unwilling to believe that this was really happening, "What the hell are you doing?"

"It's fine, Summer," he answered, in the same tired voice. "It'll be fine."

He turned to A.J. and gestured towards the door as best he could.

"Give me one goddamn second, would you, and then we can get this over with."

Now seemingly magnanimous, A.J. nodded and lumbered back towards the door of their motel room.

"See ya in hell, _bruja_" he called cheerfully to Dawn over his shoulder, then nodded politely at Summer.

"Ryan, what the . . ."

"Shut up, Summer. Seriously. You cannot fuck around with this guy. Just let me go pay him, and we can get out of here. He's not going to hurt me anymore, okay? Just -- don't get out of the car. For anything. And don't let my mom out, either. Especially my mom. I'm in no shape to get between them."

He looked at her admiringly and attempted a smile, but grimaced as his split lip caught his teeth.

"Hey, that was smart, with the door -- the locks -- I mean," he said. "Thanks."

And with that, he turned on his heel and limped into the dingy motel room, shutting the door behind him.


	9. Ch9 Sagewinds

"Don't worry, Marissa," Dawn slurred from the back seat, "A.J and Ryan are always butting heads. They're just going to make up now, and it'll all be fine. We'll get a little going-away gift, and we'll go out to this hotel you all keep talking about."

Summer couldn't even stir up the energy to turn around and gape at the woman anymore. She was taking back every, single damn negative thing she'd ever said against Ryan, every time she'd been the supportive girlfriend and blindly taken Marissa's side in an argument. If, after living with these crazy people, he wasn't going all Norman Bates in the Cohens' kitchen with a bagel slicer, he was a lot saner than anyone had any right to be.

She looked down at her glowing phone, the numbers still punched in for 911. She could call. She would call -- well, she would if Ryan wasn't back out in another ten minutes. What else could she do?

She looked at the rapidly-blinking message light on her phone. She was in so fucking far over her head. She needed to talk to someone. But who? Seth and Zach were as useless as she was, Marissa was even worse. She had promised that she wouldn't call Sandy or Kirsten.

Besides, what kind of conversation would that be, anyway?

_"Hi, Sandy. This is Summer Roberts. Your kinda sorta foster son just got his head bashed in while I babysat his heroin-addled mother in the parking lot of a no-tell motel somewhere in Reno, Nevada. Oh, and by the way, he may or may not be prostituting himself in said motel at this very minute to keep his mother's boyfriend from hurting her, or me. Or possibly to gain access to her clothes. Or drugs. Who knows, really? Any lawyerly and/or fatherly advice for me? Yeah, I didn't think so."_

Just as she decided that she would never, ever answer her phone for any reason, the familiar tinkly strains of "Margaritaville" made her cell jump in her hand. _Damnit_!

"Coop?" she answered, alternating between watching Dawn's eager face in the rearview mirror, and anxiously watching the motel door for any sign of movement inside.

"Sum? Oh thank God! Where have you been? Seth and I have been trying to get a hold of you all day, and we weren't sure what's happening, and now Sandy and Kirsten are getting suspicious, and …"

"Coop? _Coop_! You have to take a breath. Chill, honey," she ordered, Oh, she was so being the Social Chair next year. After this hellish experience, Kick-Off Carnival planning would seem like a breeze.

"What's going on, Sum? Where's Ryan? Is his mom okay?"

She sighed.

"In order? I can't tell you, but it's mostly okay. He's talking with Dawn's boyfriend, and she's in my backseat on her way to rehab. I can't really talk to you right now, though, okay? Just, pass the message on to Cohen, and we'll call as soon as we can. I'll have Ryan call Sandy on my phone. He'll never suspect that we're alone together somewhere."

She watched as the door to the motel room finally flung open again. This time Ryan was alone, carrying a couple of suitcases and a cardboard box.

"Sum? What aren't you telling me?" Marissa demanded, but Summer was already hanging up.

"Sorry, Coop. Gotta go. I'll call soon," she promised as she shut her phone and unlocked the doors.

As she started to get out of the car to help, Ryan stopped her with a shake of his head. He limped around to the tailgate, and waited patiently for her to find the release. She heard him groan as he lifted the cases into the back of the SUV, and situated the cardboard box carefully between them.

He hobbled back around to the front passenger seat, and climbed in gingerly. Summer was watching him carefully, but she didn't know quite what she was watching for. The worst of the dirt and blood had been washed from his face and hands, and his black t-shirt was damp.

"That's as much of your stuff as A.J.'s willing to give up, Ma," he said softly. "I got the important stuff, though. Clothes, the box. Everything else . . . " he faltered for just a moment, "Everything else, we'll get for you after you're discharged, okay? New tv, new microwave, the whole works. I promise."

"Did you get my package, Ry? Do you have a package for me?" Dawn asked urgently from the backseat, showing more focus and drive than Summer had seen from her all day.

"Yeah, Mom. I do," he said. He turned stiffly to Summer as the door to the motel room swung open again. "Can we just get out of here, _please_?" he asked, and she nodded, throwing the car into reverse as A.J.'s silhouette appeared in the doorway.

"We have an hour," he said tightly, as the man-mountain swaggered down the street with grim satisfaction, waving cheerfully as they passed. Ryan seemed not to notice that he was still bleeding from several places on his face. "If we hurry, we can still make it to the clinic before six."

From the backseat, Dawn began pleading for her "package" again.

"Can you please just find someplace -- an alley, a parking deck -- someplace private -- where we can pull over for five minutes?" he asked again in that same, tight voice.

Summer headed towards the strip, and pulled into the first service entrance that she saw. She looked around carefully, but they were alone, and the only cameras she could see were pointed at the service entrance in front of them. She wasn't entirely sure what the mysterious package was, but she had a pretty good idea, and she really didn't want her father's car caught on _Inside Edition_ anytime soon.

"I think this is the best we're going to do," she said apologetically, "If we want to make it to the clinic before six."

Ryan nodded, and then grimaced in pain. It actually hurt just to look at his battered face. How on earth had he survived an earlier, Cohen-less existence? Did no teacher ever notice him walk into her classroom looking like he did right now? Didn't anyone think it was weird that the soccer player kept falling down the stairs of his one-story house?

She hated everyone right now.

Ryan twisted painfully in his seat, and then dug into his pants pocket for a small, leather case. He pushed it through the seats back to Dawn.

"There's only enough for one hit there. It's the same stuff you've been using. But, it has to be your last, Mom," Ryan said in a deep, serious voice. She had never heard him sound so grim. "I can't -- I can't do this again. And neither can you," he added.

But Dawn was already gone. As soon as the case appeared, she had eyes only for it. Without a second thought, or a hint of shame, she shed the hoodie she had borrowed from Ryan and began to tie off a vein. He turned back, eyes focused somewhere ahead of them, but Summer couldn't help but watch, horrified and fascinated. This was so much more effective than any anti-drug lecture some basketball player with a nose for blow could ever give. Summer was pretty sure she wouldn't even want to take a Midol after this.

It looked like a fairly straightforward process, but Dawn seemed utterly frustrated by it. After a minute, she called Ryan's name softly.

"No, Mom," he said flatly, without turning around. "How are we on time?" he asked Summer, still staring ahead.

"Okay, I guess, but we'll be cutting it close. I'll program the GPS now, while we're, uh, waiting," she added.

"Ry? C'mon, kiddo. You always were the best at this. For the last time? Make it good for your old mom, hunh, baby?" Dawn wheedled from the back seat.

Summer's skin crawled involuntarily. She watched a similar shudder pass through Ryan as he closed his eyes briefly.

"How close are we cutting it?" he asked softly.

"Give or take ten minutes," Summer answered. With a deep sigh, he climbed out of the front seat and into the deserted parking lot. He took another deep breath, and then opened the back door and climbed in.

"Let me see, Ma," he coaxed gently, taking the needle and the rubber tubing out of Dawn's shaking hands. This time, Summer looked away, even as Dawn began to babble.

"I used to tell the neighbors that this was my good boy. He was going to be a doctor -- look at that, not even a stick."

Summer could hear Ryan's shallow breathing, but she would not, could not, look at him. She heard Dawn's sigh, and the sharp sound of a zipper being closed. He climbed out of the back seat, and paused briefly before returning to the car empty-handed.

"Can you just back straight out, please?" he said quietly.

"Ry? What did you do?" Dawn asked hazily, but her head was already beginning to nod again.

Summer just nodded and put the car back into gear. She felt a soft bump as they ran over the works, but then they were on their way.

Following the soft GPS directions gave them a fairly straight route to Sagewinds. Ryan sat beside her, his eyes closed, and Dawn snored softly in the back seat. Summer snuck a glance at him, and he immediately opened his eyes.

"You still okay to drive?" he murmured, his own eyes at half-mast.

"I'm fine," she answered, equally softly. "At least while the sun's up. We're almost there, anyway."

"Thanks," he said again, and then, even softer, "Sorry. About, you know, everything,"

She shook her head and listened for the last turnoff.

"Is that the Ryan Atwood Global Apology for Everything Wrong in the Universe?" she asked. He looked at her, eyes narrowed further.

"What?"

She attempted a smile.

"Seth warned me. He said that, left unchecked, you would be sure that global warming and the war in Iraq were somehow your fault. I'm not supposed to pay any attention to it."

He looked at her and shook his head.

"You know that's not it," he protested.

She waved him off and pointed to an intricate gravel driveway that wound up a shaded hill.

"I think this is it. And please, you've got to know that not a single thing that happened today is your fault. Except, maybe the fact that you and Seth can't seem to convince the Cohens to buy you your own damn car," she added, with another attempt at levity.

It looked, from the corner of her eye, as though he tried to smile, so she was going to consider that mission accomplished.

In the end, Sagewinds was the easiest part of their day.

Although they made it with just minutes to spare, the whole staff was assembled to greet them. The Cathy with whom Ryan had spoken turned out to be a blonde in her twenties with a pixie cut and a big grin, who reminded them both reassuringly of Anna Stern. When the orderlies accompanied Cathy to the car with a wheelchair, Dawn was still out cold.

"I'm sorry," Ryan said, over and over. "We waited too long, She had to get high . . . "

One of the orderlies finally cut him off gently.

"It's fine, son. We'll put her straight into detox, and by the time she wakes up, she'll be feeling a whole lot better."

They loaded her gently into the chair, but Ryan stopped them before they could take her away. He squatted in front of his mother, trying to rouse her with little success. In the end, he simply brushed the hair away from her face and kissed her softly on the forehead.

The orderlies waved, and started off again, but once more he stopped them. They waited patiently for him to get his thoughts in order.

"Just, just tell her . . . we love her -- her sons, I mean -- and we'll be waiting for her," he said finally, and they nodded respectfully at his words.

"No offense, folks, but you look like thirty miles of bad road," Cathy said as she came to gather them and take them back to the office. "Is everything okay?"

Ryan and Summer took a good look at each other. They'd both been awake and wearing the same clothes for almost two days. Ryan looked exactly like someone had just kicked his ass, but hard, and Summer had never been seen in public with less lipgloss.

They both shrugged wearily.

"It's been -- a long few days," Ryan finally said.

"You can stay here tonight, if you want," Cathy offered, but Ryan was already shaking his head.

"Yeah, most families don't want to be here for the detox; I can't blame them. Anyway, there's motel about two miles down the road. You can't miss it. It's not fancy, but it's clean, and they've got 24-hour room service."

That sounded like the best thing Summer ever heard.

They spent close to another hour, each in separate offices, signing document after document with false names. It gave Summer a certain grim satisfaction to think of the step-monster, hazy from her own drink and drugs, trying to remember when she'd come to Sagewinds Spa. She didn't find out until they were leaving, though, that Ryan had deceived the clinic as well.

"Well, everything's in order, James. Your mother should be fine. We've got all the paperwork we need to admit her, and you'll be able to start communicating again as soon as she's through with detox. I tucked in some pre-printed envelopes, in case you want to write to her, and our card has our e-mail address. It will just be patient's name and our address."

"James?" Summer mouthed in surprise, but Ryan shook his head.

By the time they made it back to the car, it was nearly dusk. Ryan offered to drive again, but Summer figured she could make it a few miles down the road.

"So seriously, _James_?" she asked when the motel's lights were finally in their field of vision.

"I'm not eighteen. I had to sign her in as Trey." He explained.

"Trey's first name is James? Really? That -- that doesn't suit him at all," she declared.

Ryan laughed wearily.

"Did you really think my parents named him _Trey_? It's James Patrick Atwood III, after my dad, and my grandfather," he pointed out.

"So, do you, like, remember much about your Dad?" she asked, suddenly tentative again. What the proper topic of conversation to strike after you've watched a friend's mother shoot up in front of you was never covered in Peggy's Cotillion classes.

"He's not dead, Summer," Ryan snapped, and she had to remind herself that he was not only having the worst weekend ever, but that he'd been awake for almost forty straight hours.

"Sorry," she said simply. She glanced over, and Ryan was slumped in his seat, hands over his eyes.

"No, I'm sorry. That's -- it's not your fault. I don't really remember much about him. He was sent away when I was only eight, and we only went to see him once or twice after that. We used to get letters from him every once in awhile, but they stopped coming eventually. I don't know if it was because of the divorce, or if he just lost track of us after one of our moves, or what, but we haven't heard from him in a long time," he said.

"Did you ever think you might want to try to find him again?" she asked.

"Why? So he can ask me to drive across the state and get beat up for him, too?"

At that, Ryan began to laugh, at first low, but then verging on hysterically, until, by the time she pulled into the parking lot of the Motel 6, she wasn't sure if he was laughing or crying.


	10. Ch10 Motel Room Service

They checked into the hotel with a minimum of fuss, although she had to fight with Ryan over who was going to pay. Which she didn't quite understand, since she was pretty sure that A.J. had mugged him of all of his money back in Reno. The only problem was that there were no doubles.

All she wanted was a shower, a meal and a bed, and not necessarily in that order.

"Whatevs. I'm sure you kick less than Cohen does. I don't care if I have to sleep with you," she said, and the problem was solved -- just like that.

She was sure that Ryan was going to fall right into bed, but when they reached the room, he dropped their bags onto the floor and immediately started undressing.

He sat down on the edge of the bed and concentrated on untying his laces. After a minute, he kicked off his boots and stuck his hand down into the toe. Ew.

He came up with two hundred-dollar bills, though, which he laid on the nightstand.

"That's all I could save from A.J.," he said. "Sorry. I'm going to take a shower and then crash, if that's okay? Go ahead and order dinner. I'll eat anything,"

Without another word, he walked off into the bathroom.

Summer sat on the edge of the bed, which was still warm from where Ryan had been a moment before. She found a room-service menu and a number for the front desk, and ordered up a bunch of different cold sandwiches, salads and fruit. She figured they could both do without another burger, and anything that started out cold would probably keep overnight, in case they just fell asleep.

She took a moment to finally check the -- _good lord_ -- 36 messages on her voicemail, and made a quick call to Marissa's voicemail -- letting her know where they were -- and to Cohen's hotel.

"Summer?"

She wasn't even sure that the phone had rung on his end when Seth answered.

"Cohen? What are you doing in your hotel room?" she asked.

"Waiting for you to call. Or Ryan to call. Or someone to call. Are you guys okay?" he asked frantically, and somehow his version of a spazz-out didn't quite irritate her the same way that Marissa's did.

"We're okay, Cohen," she said.

"Well, thank Jesus and Moses, I guess," he said, and she was surprisingly touched to hear the relief in his voice. "What's going on?"

She sighed. This was the part Seth wasn't going to love.

"You know how what happens in Vegas stays in Vegas?" she asked. "Oh, wait a second, the food's here. Hold on," she said, tucking her cell under her chin as she went to sign the check, leaving a substantial tip.

She was going to be nice to every service person in the whole world from now on. Every one that got up in the morning and went to a crappy, low-wage job and didn't give blow jobs in back alleys or demand sex from children in exchange for drugs.

"You're not in the Vegas, Summer," Seth said woodenly.

"No, we're in the Reno. Look, Chino's mom got in trouble -- got arrested. We got it all straightened out, and now we're on our way home. Anything else, Ryan's going to have to tell you. It's _so_ not my job to fill you in on his family," she said, sharper than she intended.

She heard Seth sigh in his own hotel, even as she dug into the sad, sad fruit plate. Apple slices and mandarin oranges? Ew. But whatevs, she was already getting scurvy from the food on this trip. She'd make do.

"So, the odds my getting the whole story . . . " Seth trailed off. Summer was pretty sure they were slim to none, and slim just left the building, but Seth and Ryan had a bond that sometimes transcended Ryan's quintessential Chino nature.

"Probably not good," she answered cheerfully. "But again, so not my problem. Oh, it would be good if you could come up with a reason why Ryan looks like someone ran over him with a truck this weekend, though," she added.

"_Did_ someone run over him with a truck?" Seth asked, and she could hear Zach, faintly, in the background, say "What!"

"No. No trucks, no running over. He's beat up pretty bad, though, and if your parents think he's been fighting again . . . "

"Yeah, I can see how that's not going to fly. I'll think of something. Seriously, though, are you guys okay? If you're being held hostage, say, 'May the force be with you.'"

She laughed despite herself.

"Like any good kidnapper wouldn't pick up on your stealth code, Cohen. We're fine. I'm eating a crappy fruit plate in a crappy hotel room somewhere outside of Reno, Nevada, but besides that, it's all good."

They chatted for a few more minutes, mostly trying to decide when and if to meet up the next day before heading home and, by the end of it, Summer had somehow managed to convince Seth that everything was okay. Now, if she could only convince herself.

She finished the fruit plate and was semi-dozing on the bed, flipping between CNN in Spanish and a cooking channel she didn't recognize, when it occurred to her that Ryan might actually need toiletries.

She dug her father's pouch out of her bag again and knocked on the bathroom door. There was no answer. The shower was still running, over forty minutes after she'd first heard it turn on.

After a moment of hesitation, she knocked on the door again, louder, and then walked in.

In typical Ryan Atwood fashion, the bathroom was immaculate. His dopp kit had been unpacked on the sink -- his toothbrush, toothpaste, comb, razor and gel all lined up with military precision, although it looked like only the toothbrush had been used. His dirty clothes were folded and tucked inside one of the dry-cleaning bags the hotels always left in the bathrooms, and a new towel was laid out for him on the edge of the sink, next to a fresh pair of grey boxer-briefs.

After forty minutes, she'd expected the room to be billowing with steam, but although the mirror was dripping with condensation, it was not particularly warm.

"Chino?" she called, then, louder, "Ryan?"

After another moment's hesitation, she pulled back the edge of the shower curtain, determined to look only at eye level. The problem was, there was nothing at eye level. Ryan was huddled in the far corner of the shower, his knees pulled up under his chin, which, thank God, were blocking a better view of anything manly. His head was pillowed on his arms, and he was sound asleep under the now-freezing cold rush of water.

"Hey!" she called loudly, unwilling to touch that much wet and naked Ryan. "Hey! Chino! Ryan!"

He woke with a start, lifting his head to get a faceful of freezing water, then jumped to his feet.

"No! No! Stay down, Chino!" Summer hollered, before withdrawing to the other side of the curtain.

"Summer! What the . . . " he sputtered on the other side of the far-too-revealing white plastic shower curtain.

"I'm sorry!" she shouted over the water. "I'm sorry!"

Ryan had already turned off the spray, though, so her voice echoed throughout the room.

"Sorry,"she said again in a more-moderate voice. "You fell asleep in the shower. I came in to check on you when you didn't answer me."

"Um, thanks," Ryan's disembodied voice came from the other side of the curtain. "I'm, uh, fine, though. Do you think you can leave me alone for a few minutes?" he said, "Or, you know, hand me a towel at least?

Right, right. A towel. Or, she should probably leave. Definitely. First towel, then leave.

She grabbed the towel from the sink and tossed it over the curtain rod as she fled.

"Really, really sorry," she called out again.

She was already half-asleep again when he finally emerged, dressed just in his boxer-briefs. Oh well, it wasn't as if either of them had packed particularly well for this excursion. After deciding to forgo a shower until the unit could make some more hot water in the morning, Summer had raided first her bag and then his until she found one of Ryan's white, v-necked t-shirts.

Jesus. He looked awful. And also _hot_. Which was so very, very wrong. His torso was a mass of nasty, dark bruises, which ranged from plum-colored to greenish and every hue in between. He had bruises on his arms, his legs, even one at the ankle, right where the lip of his boot would catch him -- and what looked like gravel burns on his knees. All laid over some very, very fine, tight muscles. And some washboard abs. And some extremely well-defined arm muscles whose names escaped her.

"You do look like thirty miles of bad road, Ryan," she murmured sleepily and he sort of laughed, then gestured to his bare chest.

"Yeah, sorry about the free show," he said, "But someone stole my underwear."

She tugged at the undershirt.

"Yeah, I forgot to pack a nightgown. Sorry about that."

"'S'okay," he said, and went back to rearranging the mess Summer had left behind in his duffel bag.

"There's food -- on the dresser," she said, gesturing half-heartedly in that direction, but Ryan shook his head.

"Nah, I think I'll just crash," he said.

She opened one sleepy eye to its full extension.

"Seriously, Chino, you'd better be about to climb into this bed. Because if I wake up and find you sleeping on that nasty carpet tomorrow morning, I will end you."

She closed her eyes again, but she felt his laughter wash over her.

"I'm fine, Summer, but thanks for the rage black-out warning."

"You're not fine," she said, raising her voice slightly without opening her eyes. "You're tired, and you're hurt, and if anyone's having a shitty-weekend contest, you're winning, hands down. Now, come to bed and don't make me have to open my eyes again," she ordered.

This time, she felt the mattress dip, just slightly.

"Oh, for cryin' out loud, Chino, get comfortable, would you? Your virtue is safe with me. And unless you're a kicker like Cohen, you're not going to bother me one bit," she assured him.

And that was certainly the truth, as she drifted off to sleep a moment later.


	11. Ch11 The Aftermath

It was still dark when Summer woke again, in a panic, her heart racing. Something had awakened her. She glanced around wildly, disoriented, and heard the soft noise again, this time not right in her ear.

She looked down. Ryan, who usually sprawled across every surface in the pool house, was curled in tight on himself, his hands tucked under his chin. In sleep, his face was even younger than Cohen's, younger than any of them -- he looked as though he'd been outside playing under the streetlights until bedtime. It was also covered in tears.

He was moaning softly to himself, crying in his sleep. She knew better than to wake a sleep walker. Did the same rules apply to a sleep crier?

She settled on a compromise, stroking his hair away from his face as he became more restless, murmuring to himself in nonsense syllables that eventually resolved themselves into words -- _No. Stop. A.J. Mom. Trey. Hurts._ -- but not into any sense. As he grew more agitated, she made a decision.

"Chino? Hey, Ryan, wake up," she called softly. She put her hand on his shoulder and squeezed gently, and he jumped beneath her.

He sat straight up, his hair wildly mussed from sleeping on it while it was still wet.

"What? What's wrong?" he asked, already awake.

She felt terrible.

"I'm so sorry. You were -- you were having a nightmare, I think. You were upset."

He wiped a hand across his face, and she heard him swear softly.

"Damnit. Summer, I'm sorry," he said, but she grabbed his hand, and held it between hers.

"No. Don't. If anyone deserves a little mental breakdown right now, it's you. I just -- you looked so sad. I didn't know what else to do," she admitted.

Under her hands, his palm was warm and dry, his fingers still holding faint calluses from his summer's work, and more recent grooves from his drafting pencil. After a moment, he gently tugged his hand away, and brushed it roughly across his face again.

Even in the filtered light from the parking lot, she could see he was blushing, his face, his neck, his ears -- heck, even his chest was a dull, hot red.

"I don't, uh . . . I don't usually cry," he said softly. "Sometimes I hit people by accident, though." She thought he sounded almost pleased by that. "Once, I accidently hit Seth in the nose when I was napping. That's why he knows better than to touch me me when I'm asleep."

She nodded. She'd seen at least a few of Seth's "stealth" maneuvers on a sleeping Ryan, and it was true. Most of the time, Seth was at the end of the bed, or even across the room when he started chanting, or throwing Cheerios in Ryan's ear, or whatever he was doing to torment the poor kid.

"Do you want to talk about it?" she asked, simply.

Ryan shook his head.

"Do I ever?" he asked wryly. "But thanks. I, um, I don't usually remember them, if it makes you feel better -- the nightmares. I'm just sorry they woke you. That's why I like the pool house."

"So, they're not, like, new? From today?" she asked, lying back down and making herself comfortable.

"No. Well, maybe. I've had them forever, but they're supposed to be a stress reaction, so, you know, stressed. Trey used to hit me in the head until I shut up, back when we shared a bed," he added, as he lay back down beside her.

Without thinking, she gathered him up in her arms -- felt him tense for a moment.

"Um, Summer?" he asked softly.

"Am I hurting you?" she asked, being particularly careful of where she placed her hands on his bruised abdomen.

"No."

"Then shut up and go back to sleep. I'm testing a theory."

The second time she woke, the light filtering through the curtains was the grey light of pre-dawn, and Ryan was still sleeping, and struggling, in her arms. This time, he wasn't crying, he was fighting against her, so she let him go. Immediately, he flipped on his side and burrowed into her, his face hidden against her chest, his substantial morning erection straining through the thin material of his boxer briefs, pushing against her thigh.

Still sleeping, he began nuzzling against her, at the junction of where her neck met her shoulder. A spot that she would pay him to introduce Cohen to, actually. After a few moments, he began stroking her hair with his hand, the other cupping her buttocks and drawing her closer into him.

"Ryan! Um, Ryan. Chino! Hey!" she whispered fiercely, but this time a tap on the shoulder didn't seem to do it.

Before things got too far, though, she felt him start to stir, making soft, questioning sounds in the back of his throat.

"Ryan?" she whispered again, and this time he answered with a lazy "Hmmm?" while stroking his thumb back and forth gently across her nipple.

"Ryan, where are you?" she asked.

"Bed. 'S'nice," he muttered. "So soft."

"Ryan, this is Summer," she said. "Not Marissa. You get that, right?"

"Um-hmmh," he answered, still half-asleep.

She didn't speak Ryan's language, not really. None of them did. But, she knew that this was the closest she could get. It wasn't cheating. It wasn't sex. It was comfort. It was solid. It was speaking to Ryan in a language he could finally understand.

"Ryan, what do you want?" she asked.

"You," he answered baldly.

Fair enough.

Summer lay back and allowed him to lift his shirt from her torso. His eyes were still slitted, but she could see that he was awake now.

"No one will know," she whispered, "But I won't lie to you -- and I won't let you lie to yourself. Who am I? Really, Ryan -- you have to say it, or this -- this isn't going to happen."

"Summer," he whispered. "Seth's girl, I know."

He started to pull away, but she stopped him with a hand resting gently on his back.

"No, it's okay," she said. "It won't hurt Seth. It won't hurt me. It might help you."

He nodded, and below his wild hair his eyes were slitted again, this time with desire.

"Just so we're clear. . . " he started.

"Mercy fuck," Summer said evenly. "Well, friendship fuck. Comfort fuck. That's all."

She expected to lie back and think of Newport Beach, but it would figure that Ryan, even in his most selfish, basest instincts, was the prototypical boy scout.

He finished undressing her, and sat back on his heels, admiring the canvas that lay before him.

"That," he said sleepily, "Is a magnificent ass. Not a Newport ass at all. That is what Theresa's mom would say comes from _salsa_ and _frijoles_."

"Hunh?" she wasn't sure if she was being dissed or complimented, but Ryan picked up on her confusion immediately.

"It's not an insult," he whispered, laying himself down in the split of her legs, holding his chest over hers as he nuzzled against her neck. "It just means you get it from a lot of sexy dancing and a lot of good home cooking. A woman who's fun, but real. Not a throwaway girl," he explained, peppering each word with a kiss against her breastbone.

A minute later, he had gotten his legs beneath hers, and pulled her over on top of him. Her first instinct was to cover up -- this was a position that let all her hidden flaws show, but Ryan didn't give her the time.

He seated her against his pelvic bone, and pulled her breasts down towards him, licking and nibbling the darker areas around her aureoles. Within minutes, her nipples were stiff, and she was pushing herself down against the unyielding hardness of his hip. He brought his legs up to give her better purchase, holding her in a kind of cradle made of his legs and his chest as she rocked back and forth in time with his kisses.

Just when she thought she was going to go crazy if she couldn't get some more stimulation, he walked his hands down her back -- as light as bees' wings -- until they cupped together under her ass. He probed gently at the edges of her panties until he found an opening, and slid a finger inside. She felt the faded calluses she'd felt earlier -- coarse against her delicate skin -- but he didn't push, letting her seat herself on him until she found an angle, and a rhythm, that could take her home. When she came it was wholly unexpected -- a quick, sharp shock -- a sudden, small seizure -- and she let herself fall against his chest.

After a moment, and a few deep breaths, she looked up to find him smiling at her.

"Feeling okay?" he asked. She thumped him lightly on the chest.

"You know I am, you smug bastard," she answered. "Now, why can't you teach Seth _that_ instead of how to swear in Spanish?" she demanded. She felt, rather than heard, the deep chuckle in his throat.

"Oh yeah. That's a conversation I want to have with Seth, who talks about foreplay as the appetizer," he said, and to her surprise, neither of them seemed to be affected by his name. It was as though he were there with them, between them.

"Oh, God," she moaned. "Did he tell you about the fish sex?"

She buried her face in his chest as he laughed aloud.

"What do you think?" Ryan asked, and to her utter surprise, flipped her onto her back once again.

"Hey, stranger," she said, her voice suddenly lower, "I didn't forget about you."

She reached up to the waistband above her, to tug the shorts off the rest of that magnificent body, but Ryan brushed her hand away. With quick efficiency, he stripped them both, and lay down again between her legs, his cock just out of reach of her hands.

"You know," she said, "I may have been a virgin before Seth, but I wasn't, like, a total virgin-virgin. I mean, I'm known to give pretty good head." She didn't want to brag, but she was the one who taught Holly to deep-throat -- the one who convinced Marissa to go down on Luke at all.

He chuckled again, and batted her hands away.

"What if I'm not done playing yet?"he asked, his eyes twinkling. Now, she was the one who blushed, from root to, um, _root_.

"You mean, um . . . " she trailed off as she watched Ryan's blond, tousled head pillowed on her thigh, so different from Seth's wiry curls. In fact, they'd joked about the consistency of their various, uh, pelts the very first time Seth had tried this.

Ryan heaved himself further up the bed, landing gracefully beside her. He leaned over and kissed her, his stubbled cheek raw against hers, his mouth still tasting faintly of toothpaste, despite his morning breath. He smelled like cheap hotel soap, and under it -- fainter -- were the familiar scents of the Cohen's laundry detergent, and the Cohen's soap. But deeper, where Seth was sea breeze and lemon verbena, Ryan was dark -- musk and damp earth and mole sauce. It was an odd, but not an altogether unpleasant, contrast.

"Yes, I mean, _um_," he teased when he was finished, "Unless it makes you uncomfortable. Haven't you and Seth . . . " he let the question trail off.

"We have," she admitted. "It's just, well, it doesn't really work for me, that's all."

Ryan cocked an eyebrow.

"That would be a first," he said, "I'm pretty sure it works for everybody. I bet Seth can't keep his mouth shut long enough to really show off his technique. Trust me on this," he added, as he began to kiss his way down her chest and over her abdomen.

When he reached her center, his first few teasing strokes made her laugh, she was so sensitive and they were so ticklish. But he seemed to be learning her body as he went along. After a few minutes, he found a harder pressure, a simpler rhythm, and a slow, deep warmth began spreading from the point right behind her navel. She twisted and shook under his mouth, hearing a strange, guttural panting--was surprised to realize that it came from her. As the slow warmth deepened and spread, Ryan added one finger, then another, probing and testing inside even as he continued to apply pressure outside, with his mouth and his teeth and his lips.

If her first orgasm was sharp and sudden, this one rolled over her like an incoming tide, soft and deep, warm and welcome. She rode its peaks for several minutes until she stopped shuddering, and Ryan flopped down beside her once more.

He stretched out his arms above his head and reached for a tissue, but Summer stopped him before he could wipe his face. She kissed him deeply, probing for her own juices, ashamed and exhilarated at the same time. He brought his hand up to cradle the bottom of her skull, brushing his fingertips against the back of her ears, guiding her mouth as he returned her kiss eagerly.

When she was finished, he lay spread out before her, his hands still over his head. Even under the dark, ugly bruises, he was a sight -- all planes and angles, and dark, hidden places. She kissed him again, and moved her hand down between his legs. His cock was thick and heavy, not too long, much like Ryan himself, the skin velvet soft, the flesh feeling, oddly, like a bike handle, dense padding around a strong core. She tugged at it gently, until she felt it jump under her hands, then she bent her head towards it, only to be stopped by Ryan twisting away from her.

"What? What now?" she demanded, but he was already out of bed, his pale ass flashing her as he dug through the pockets of his pants.

"Condom," he answered as he climbed back into bed beside her, a small roll of three in his fist. He broke one off and took a moment to kiss her again. "You want to do the honors, or should I?" he asked.

She wrinkled her nose. This was precisely why she was on the pill. And, incidentally, why she didn't sleep around.

"We don't need one," she said, "It's just been me and Seth -- and Seth and Alex. We got tested after they broke up -- after we got back together. Um -- there never was a me and Zach. And -- well, you? You live like a monk."

Ryan shook his head. This was why, no matter what they told her, she would never really believe that Ryan fathered Theresa's baby. Agreed to be the father, certainly. But he was just too cautious to have done something so reckless -- and dumb.

"No glove, no love," he said lightly, pressing the wrapper into her hand.

She took it -- quickly cast it aside.

"I hate the taste of latex," she said, but Ryan grabbed her head, and forced her to turn her face towards him.

"Summer, listen to me. If you don't like the taste, you don't have to do anything. I'm a very creative guy; we can find another way to have a good time. But, no--not _this_ -- not without a condom."

She sighed.

"I just wanted to return the favor," she pouted. "Why do you have to be such a pain in the ass?"

He looked at her sharply for a minute, then smiled sadly.

"I appreciate the gesture. Seriously. But, you can't be too careful. A.J.'s a fuckin' druggie. No different than my mom," he said.

Somehow the conversation zigged -- just when she'd zagged. He'd lost her.

"So -- you think you could be infected, like, from the fight? Did he bleed on you?" she asked, concerned.

"Nah. Mostly, I bled on him. Though he did scrape his knuckles on my mouth."

"So now you think you've got -- what -- hepatitis? AIDS?" she asked. "C'mon, Ryan, there's careful -- and then there's paranoid."

He blinked at her, and sighed again.

"Not paranoid," he said softly, "Careful. There are -- other ways –- that -- um . . . "

Oh, Jesus. She was as dense as fucking Marissa sometimes.

"What did he do," she asked carefully, "While you were in the room together? Did he hurt you? Do you need to see a doctor?"

Ryan sighed and sat up, pulling her to him under one arm.

"See, _this_? This is not how I expected this to go. I thought there might actually be some sex in it for me -- finally. Now I think all I need is a cigarette and a fuckin' cold shower."

Despite his words, he didn't sound angry -- just tired and sad.

"You had your cold shower last night," she reminded him, trying to lighten the mood, just a little. Ryan smiled only with his mouth.

"Yeah, that? Was my little freak-out. This morning was supposed to be the opposite of that. Now, could we return to our regularly scheduled programming, please?" he said, as he bent to kiss her again.

"Wait, wait, Chino, hang on," she said, pushing him away. He sighed for real this time, and Summer felt like a complete ass. This was supposed to be a mercy fuck, not a therapy session.

"It's just -- Look, wouldn't you feel better if you got to say it out loud? Just once? And then I'll forget all about it, just like we're going to forget about this morning. Just -- tell me what happened, and I promise to act like it's no big deal, and then we can have some condom-covered sex and return to Seth, all equilibrium restored."

He was looking at her with hooded eyes.

"I'm fine," he said shortly, and she knew that he was seconds away from leaving the bed and returning to the real life that awaited them after their 12-hour ride back to Newport Beach.

But she pushed back anyway.

"It's only -- yesterday wasn't the first time, was it?"

Ryan actually groaned and threw himself back onto the bed, his erection having fled the building several moments before.

"Jesus. Fuckin'. Christ. Summer. You're worse than fuckin' Seth. What the hell do you think? No, yesterday was not the first time, okay? Now, is that supposed to make me feel better? 'Cause it doesn't. Actually, the sex was working just fine, but thanks all the same."

"What did he do?" she asked, in a small voice, ignoring his outburst.

He covered his eyes with a forearm.

"Jesus. You really need me to tell you?"

Summer nodded, but didn't speak, just waited as he fought with himself -- resigned himself to the fact that she most likely already knew. She wanted to say that nothing he could say would surprise -- or repulse -- her at this point, but she knew that there were some lines even she couldn't cross.

"Just my mouth," he mumbled, "It was just my mouth -- he wanted me to blow him. If you want to party, A.J.'s got to _come_," he added in a bitter, sing-song voice.

"And, the other times?" Her voice was deliberately soft and even.

"Sometimes -- not -- just my mouth."

"Was A.J. the only one?"

There was a long, long pause.

"No." He was almost too quiet to hear.

"And your mom?"

"Summer, _Jesus_!"

He turned from her and buried his head in his hands.

"What happened with your mom, Ryan?"

"_Shit_ -- okay, fine."

He turned suddenly and faced her, and she could see the vein in his right temple begin to throb -- even though he still hadn't raised his voice.

"So, she's not the most stable mother ever. She -- occasionally -- in the midst of a bender -- might have gotten me -- confused -- with someone else. Kind of like . . . like she did yesterday."

"What else?"

"What! Summer -- what the fuck else do you think there is?" Ryan spat.

She sighed.

"'Ry? Help your Mom out, kiddo?'" she mimicked.

"Why are you doing this?" he asked, his voice strangled. "You were there. You already know the answer to that."

"And Trey?"

"Oh, for Christ's sake -- _Trey_? He's my brother, Summer! No. Never. Not once. No, _Jesus_, no," he said, sitting up and glaring at her.

She shifted to face him fully, and put a hand on his reddened cheek.

"No. Not like that. I didn't think that. I just meant -- did it happen to Trey, too? Did Trey know what was happening to you?"

Ryan turned away from her, looked down at his hands tangled up in the stiff, cheap bedsheets.

"He -- I guess -- I don't know. We never talked about it. Ever. We just -- if he was hurt, I took it. If I was hurt, he did. It's just how it worked. And we always, you know, looked out for each other."

"But nobody knew?"

"Everybody knew," he hissed. "Nobody said they knew. Jesus -- every guy my mom ever dated, anyone who knows A.J., teachers, parents, coaches, they all knew. A.J.'s a pretty fuckin' scary guy -- in case you hadn't noticed."

He ran his hand back and forth across his forehead and sighed.

"Hell, all my mother's boyfriends were pretty fuckin' scary guys. It's just -- easier -- this way. Christ, there's probably a little note in some folder in Sandy's office somewhere: 'Ryan Atwood took it up the ass for the first time in spring of 1998. We think this contributes to his intimacy issues.'"

"You were ten?"

Up until now, Summer had kept up her end of the bargain -- no emotion, it's no big deal. But _ten_ -- she and Marissa had still been playing dress-up and My Little Pony. Seth hadn't even been allowed to cross the street by himself.

"Nine," Ryan answered. "Foster care. Good Christians. Everyone said they'd turn me around. The old guy -- he was the one -- he said I was already damaged goods. It was too late to save me -- he could do what he wanted -- and no one would ever believe me. He was right," Ryan finished softly.

He'd drawn the sheets around himself, and was sitting up in bed, a pillow wedged behind him. His legs were drawn up, and crossed at the ankles, and his hands dangled loosely between his spread knees.

"It's never too late," Summer answered. "I believe you. The Cohens would, too, if you told them."

"Which I won't. And you won't either, _right_, Summer?" Ryan suddenly snarled.

"Tell them what? Everything in this room is going to melt away the second we cross that threshold."

"Good. Then can I please have a fuckin' cigarette now?" he asked plaintively.

By the time Ryan finished smoking, Summer had dozed off again, and when she awoke, the sun was fully out. Ryan was sitting at the end of the bed, re-dressed in his boxer-briefs, watching her sleep and picking at a fruit plate.

"Hey you," she said, and smiled at him as she stretched lazily. "What are you doing?"

"Eating some fruit. Watching you sleep. The usual. You know, this is really sad. Mandarin oranges -- seriously? Even in Chino you'd get a nice mango, or maybe a papaya. At least it doesn't taste any shittier the morning after."

"How are you doing?" she asked.

"Crappy fruit plate and serious blue balls aside? Okay, I guess. Thanks, you know, for the impromptu therapy session."

"What time is it?" she asked.

"A little after seven. We should probably get going," he added.

"Or, you know, we could take care of at least one of your problems," Summer said, patting the empty bed beside her.

"You know where to get a juicy mango in Reno? That'd be _awesome_, Sum," Ryan said, his voice taking on the bland, earnest cheer of a Harbor pep squad member.

"You know what I meant," she scolded. Ryan snorted, and put the plate carefully down on the floor before rising to his knees and coming to lie beside her.

"Oh yeah, that's so sexy. Not even a mercy fuck, now. A pity fuck. I may not be getting any -- apparently ever again -- but even I have my standards," he said, leaning to kiss her.His fingers smelled like oranges as he brushed the hair away from her face.

"Not a pity fuck. Never," she added, more fiercely than she intended. She hated people who felt sorry for her. She knew Ryan had to feel the same.

"Not a pity fuck," she reaffirmed. "You know, I'm not the only one in this bed with a nice ass. Maybe I just want to sample the forbidden treasure," she started to giggle.

Ryan picked up a pillow and covered his face, laughing too.

"And apparently my standards are lower than I thought. Because that actually sounded pretty hot to me," he said, between bursts of laughter.

"It did?"

"Hey. Have I mentioned that it's been fifteen months since I've had actual sex with a woman?"

She hit him with her own pillow, and before long, they were tussling goodnaturedly on the bed.

Unlike the careful attention they had lavished on each other earlier, this fuck was quick and friendly. Summer didn't orgasm again, but she was okay with that, since she didn't think she was going to -- Ryan was just too pent up to pay her much mind. He wasn't so out of practice that she didn't enjoy the ride, however, and once again she had the strangest feeling that Cohen might actually approve.

By the time they cleaned up and checked out, it was after eight o'clock, and, whether it was better directions, or the fact that they'd had some sleep, they made substantially better time on the ride home.

Ryan offered to drive the first leg, and they only stopped long enough to gas up and grab some food when they needed to. When they switched drivers at the halfway point, they tried calling Seth and Marissa, but got no answer. Summer left voicemails while Ryan dozed in the seat beside her.

Their trip back was quiet, but it was a normal, Ryan Atwood, comfortable silence that she didn't mind. Once, he looked out the window and, smoking the one cigarette she allowed him to have every two hours, wondered aloud about how his mother was doing.

By the time they pulled into the familiar gates of the Cohens' development, it was almost twilight.

The guard waved them through, and Summer thought she saw a little smile play on Ryan's face.

"What?" she demanded.

"Nothing. It's just -- good to be home," he said, and she couldn't have agreed more.


	12. Ch12 The End

When Summer pulled the car up to the Cohens' front door, she was surprised to see Trey sitting on the front steps, smoking a cigarette. She hadn't even stopped the car fully when Ryan leaped out.

"What're you doing here?" Ryan demanded.

"Better question, Ry -- why'd you go without me?" Trey asked, tossing his cigarette away angrily.

Ryan was defensive, hands balled into fists at his side. Summer saw Sandy and Kirsten and Seth all bunched behind the brothers, crowded into the doorway. Why was Seth home? Oh boy. This was so not good.

"You can't leave the state, Trey. You know that. Besides, after what you said last time --"

Trey snorted.

"You know I didn't mean it. Is she . . . ?"

"Back on the junk? Yeah, A.J. has her strung out and . . ."

Trey's face twisted into a rictus of pain as he shouted over Ryan's increasingly desperate explanations.

"_A.J._? Fuckin' A.J.!"

". . . ten dollars tricks in an alley! I had to do something, Trey. She called. She found me. She found us . . ."

"Did A.J. do that to you?" Trey demanded, gesturing to Ryan's battered face, but Ryan just kept going, talking at, what was for him, a remarkable rate. Trey reached his hand out to him, but Ryan pulled away, wrapping his arms around his waist in a self-protective gesture.

Summer regretted with every fiber of her being that she'd wished earlier that Ryan would show some vulnerability. God, now all she wanted was for him to shut up -- to go back to being silent, stoic, regular old Chino.

"It's a nice place, Trey. Really nice. I think she's going to like it . . . she seemed like she was going to give it a shot -- like she really wanted to be there -- "

"She's gone, Ry -- she's already gone." Trey interrupted, his voice soft, trying to get Ryan's attention. From behind him, Sandy made a move towards the younger Atwood, who was still backing away, closer to Summer -- to the car -- to escape, but Kirsten placed a restraining grip on his arm. "She jumped, man -- she jumped before you even hit the California line."

"No!" Ryan's voice was hoarse and fierce and desperate all at once."No, she said she'd try this time. She said . . ."

Trey cut him off, ruthlessly.

"She said she'd try? Jesus, Ryan, do you even hear yourself? Just tell me one thing -- did you sign her in as me? Did you use my name?"

"Yes! But only because I had to, man. I had to -- I'm not 18 . . ." Ryan was quickly approaching speed level "Seth" in terms of fast-talking, as the Cohens looked on in horror.

"They called, looking for me, Ry. She took off, demanded her cash back and she jumped -- just like that. She's gone, little bro."

Ryan stopped suddenly, backed up against the hood of Summer's car.

"No. She said . . . she said she was going to . . . _five thousand_? They gave her five thousand dollars?"

Summer saw Sandy startle at that, and start to ask a question, but Kirsten pulled at his arm once more to shut him up.

"She's gone," Trey repeated, and moved to pull Ryan into him once again. For a moment, Summer was sure that Ryan was going to hit his brother, but then she realized that he had gone rigid, his whole body shaking with fine tremors. Trey embraced him, and Ryan nearly collapsed against him.

If Summer never thought the Atwood boys looked much alike before, she did now, as their faces mirrored each other in identical masks of anger and grief

"She took the money, Trey! She took the money. She's gonna . . . oh God, what if I killed her?" the last was almost torn from him, followed by a fierce, harsh noise that Summer recognized too late as a sob.

It was that, more than anything, that finally broke everyone else's paralysis. Trey sank back down onto the steps with his sobbing brother in his arms.

"You didn't do anything wrong, Ry. You tried to help her. You always try to help. What she does now is on her," Trey whispered into Ryan's bowed neck.

Trey's voice was soft and steady, and he seemed not to notice his own tears. Sandy crouched down in front of the two boys, and put a gentle hand on Ryan's shoulder.

"Ryan, kid? You can't fix the world's problems. You can't stop Dawn, she's a grown woman. She should never have called you like that."

Another harsh sob sounded from Ryan, and Trey glared at the man squatting in front of them.

"No offense, Mr. Cohen, but it's probably best you shut up," he said. Sandy seemed not to notice.

"Let's go inside, boys. Ryan's had a long trip, and we've got a lot to talk about. You'll feel better once you've had a chance to calm down and get some sleep, maybe even something to eat. What do you say?"

Ryan tried to shake him off, but before he could do anything else, Kirsten was there. Summer hadn't seen her move, but suddenly there she was -- in front of the boys, holding out her arms to Ryan. Trey loosened his grip and let Ryan move into Kirsten's embrace. Even as he did so, Summer could see that Ryan was already regaining control of himself. He took a deep, shuddering breath, then another, and then Kirsten led him gently into the house -- her arm still around his waist -- whispering softly into his ear.

After a moment, Sandy hoisted himself to his feet, then offered a hand to Trey, who still sat, shaken, on the front step.

"Come on, you're twenty-one now. I don't usually recommend this as a coping mechanism, but I need a drink, and I'm guessing you could use one, too," he said matter-of-factly.

Trey ducked his head and swiped the sleeve of his t-shirt over his face surreptitiously. He looked at Sandy's outstretched hand a moment before taking it with a nod.

"Thanks, man. I've never seen Ryan so torn up before. Goddamned Dawn. I could use more than a drink, actually. But, it'll have to do, I guess.

Sandy smiled at him sympathetically, and threw an arm around his shoulder, escorting him into the house in much the same way Kirsten had Ryan.

"Sorry, kid, but despite what my father-in-law thinks, this is a drug-free household. You'll have to drink your poison like the rest of the Newpsies . . . " his voice faded as they disappeared into the house, leaving only Summer and a pale Seth behind.

Seth just stared into the house for a moment, before turning his gaze back to the driveway where Summer still stood in front of her car.

"I'm sorry," she said simply. He couldn't know for how much. She was sorry that she hadn't been able to be to Ryan was Seth was, that she hadn't been able to protect him the way that Seth and Coop would have wanted. She was sorry for so many things. What she wasn't sorry for, however, was their night together -- not that she'd tell Seth about that, ever.

He stirred, finally, and came over to her, gathered her into a hug. He smelled familiar, oddly unlike Ryan, even though they used the same laundry detergent -- the same shampoo and soap -- and she fit under his chin in the same comforting, Cohen-y way.

"Why are you sorry? _I'm_ sorry. I should have been the wingman. Dude, not that I'm sorry I missed the whole Dawn debacle, because, seriously, I woulda gone _off_ on her. And that would not have been having my boy Ryan's back at all . . . "

Summer half-listened as he rambled on, feeling his ribs through the thin material of his vintage t-shirt, his long, dry fingers rubbing the back of her neck gently. She shouldn't compare the two boys, the two experiences, apples to oranges, but the image of Ryan's shuttered face, his haunted eyes, was with her still. Maybe she should tell Seth, someday, maybe he would understand.

"Summer, are you okay?"

Apparently, she'd missed a cue. She tightened her arms around him, and smiled up at his concerned face.

"I'm fine, Cohen. Tired. Sad," she answered, honestly. He half-smiled at her and looked, for a moment, like he was going to chuck her under the chin.

"It's just, not to court the rage blackouts or anything, but this had to be strange for you, too," he said.

She cocked an eyebrow at him.

"It wasn't, you know, a lot of fun. But I like Chino. He's, like, your brother, sort of. I wanted to help."

"It's weird, you know, to see him and Trey so messed up over this. I mean, if it was _my_ mom, I'd be a wreck, but for that crack whore? I don't think so."

It was always surprising when Seth's voice took on Sandy's deep timbre, when she was reminded that he could, and did, take some things seriously. No matter what happened, no matter what Ryan thought or felt, Seth would never forgive Dawn. Not just for today, but globally, totally.

Seth's anger was unexpected, and a little naive, but it felt a little good to her, to be inside that circle of protection. She would never tell him, she decided. Not because he'd be angry at her, but because he would understand. Ryan would always be the most important person in his life, and if she could accept it, she didn't necessarily want to confront it, at least not right now, still standing in the Cohens' driveway.

"She's his mom, Cohen," she whispered, finally, cutting him off. Seth looked a little startled at that.

"Would you . . . " he started to ask, then trailed off, embarrassed,"Never mind. Just, come inside, we'll have some dinner, see if the Atwoods -- Greater and Less -- have restored their manly facades."

She pulled back from him a bit, still comfortably ensconced in the circle of his arms, and shook her head.

"Thanks, but I don't think I'm the person Ryan wants to see right now. Go -- be with him -- with your family," she emphasized. For a moment he looked uncertain, then nodded.

"Yeah, he's probably not going to be real social for a bit. You sure you're okay?" he asked, pulling her back in again and kissing her on the temple.

She nodded, and this time he let her pull away. She climbed back into the driver's side of the car, and it felt as though she's been gone for a year, not a weekend. She started the engine, but Seth was still hovering outside the door, as if afraid to let her go. She rolled down her window.

"Seth," she said sharply, and he jumped. She almost never called him Seth, but it seemed to suit him, just now."About what you were going to say, before . . . "

"I'm so sorry about that, it's none of my . . . "

She interrupted his interruption.

"No, it's fine. It's just, I was going to say . . . . My mother wouldn't recognize me if she walked down the street next to me. She doesn't even remember my birthday, most years, and she was there for the occasion. But if she called and asked for my help, I'd fly to Antarctica, just like that, no questions asked."

She snapped her fingers, and Seth jumped again. He looked gobsmacked by the revelation, and she was a little embarrassed to have made it. She put the car into reverse, and leaned up to kiss him goodbye one more time. He met her halfway, with a soft, tender kiss, and when she was done, she whispered in his ear,

"You can't pick your family, that's why everyone else is so important. Don't be too mad at Ryan. He picked you. So do I."

She was gone before Seth could reply.


End file.
